Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 05:00:45 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

CupboardOfWonders — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 10:06:52 -0600

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...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

FlameRaven — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:10:41 -0600

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?”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Princeshelby — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 15:15:47 -0600

(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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:22:51 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:26:05 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 19:49:10 -0600

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

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:23:35 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Trixter — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:13:55 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:15:23 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:46:47 -0600

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

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 23:12:15 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:25:19 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Wilson3sd — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:12:42 -0600

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. :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ohthatmomagain — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 17:33:39 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Harlow — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 17:55:09 -0600

(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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 23:31:56 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:52:15 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Wilson3sd — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 08:36:11 -0600

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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

eewashington — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:55:04 -0600

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!”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 11:35:38 -0600

Dr. Sean Goodman stood by the side of the dirt road and looked down at the broken body of the boy. He heard the mother’s cries and pleas to God over his right shoulder. With each second the boy moved closer and closer to death. Blood streamed from his closed eyes and ears. Dr. Goodman could see the lacerations over his arms and legs, and he winced at the impossible angles the limbs took. It’s too damn hot for this, he thought. Goodman looked to his left, at the dust the car that hit the boy left as it sped away down the dirt road. He shook his head at the needlessness of the situation, the heat, and sweat that escaped his hat and rolled down his brow. He kneeled down beside the broken body and felt the thready pulse at the neck. “A life for a life,” Dr. Goodman said turning his head and looking at the mother of the boy. “That’s how it works.” “No, debe haber otra forma,” she said. No, there must be another way. “There’s no other way,” Goodman said. He held out his left hand, palm up, toward the woman. She looked at him apprehensively. Goodman shook his hand at her, the motion telling her that soon it would be too late. “¿Está seguro?” The mother asked. Are you sure? “You know that it’s the only way.” Again Goodman shook his hand at her. “Give me your hand.” The woman put her hand in Goodman’s. He exhaled sharply. A life for a life. He didn’t know if that rule made his gift a test, or a sick joke played on him by those in the space between. The boy’s breathing started coming out in gurgles and gasps, and Sean could see bubbles of blood escaping his lips. Goodman extended his right hand toward him. At least it would be painless for her. She would be there one moment, then gone the next. He didn’t know how it happened exactly, but they told him that it involved the transfer of energy. Before he touched the boy’s body, Sean took a deep breath. While it might not cause pain for the other, it hurt him and not breathing seemed to be the only way to prepare himself. He touched the boy, and at that moment, he felt the woman pull her hand from his. “No puedo,” she said. I can’t. In an instant, she got to her feet and started running down the road in the opposite direction. Dr. Goodman watched her flee down the road, small wisps of dusts rising after each of her steps. He shook his head at the weakness of the mother. How could a mother sacrifice a son? Perhaps this is the reason that they made it life for a life. He could understand a stranger not wanting to make the sacrifice for another person, but a mother? The thought sickened him. Goodman looked at the broken body. The gasping breaths started spacing out. Sean took the boy’s hand in his. He would have cried if the tears hadn’t dried up so long ago. This type of thing happened before, and he never go used to it. He heard the “death rattle” from the boy and gave the hand a final squeeze and dropped it. Goodman placed his hands on his thighs, stood, and looked over the body. For a time he considered burying him. He looked across the road, at the edge of the forest twenty or so meters away. Pulling off his hat, Sean wiped the sweat from his brow and looked down the road after the car that had long disappeared. Again he looked at the now lifeless body. That’s a damn shame, he thought. Sean put his hat back on and started walking down the road after the car. --JSC P.S. I'm working on three things, that is why I have so many variant beginnings.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ELOAgent — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 21:04:03 -0600

PROLOGUE AND CHAPTER 1: NOT A HAPPILY EVER AFTER We don’t find out the meaning of life by ourselves, alone…we find out with another…unfortunately most of the time we never figure out who that other person is until it’s too late. Worlds are never certain. Someone can always be ripped away. Anyone you get close to can be taken with a single life shattering moment. There’s an invaluable lesson to this story: It doesn’t matter how many hours, days, or infinite years we have together with the people we love, all that matters is the moments that we share with them today. And that’s the lesson that went to what happened to a young woman named Dana Reeves. Dana Reeves stood by the bay window; watching the enchanting view of New York City twenty two stories below. From the bustling of people on the street to the noise of rush-hour traffic...it was home. To say she was lucky was not an understatement. Her life was perfect. Dana slammed her laptop shut and interlaced her hands behind her head, leaning back in her executive chair and thoughtfully considering the way her life had turned out. She had what she’d always dreamed of. A nice home and the perfect job not to mention the beginning of a wonderful life with the man she loved. She never thought that what would happen when she got home would change her life forever… Dana was tapping away a response on the keyboard, when she glanced at the clock and anxiously realized the short time she had to give her annual speech of the month to her employees. Rushing home to Carter was becoming harder than she originally intended when she took over this job. Tonight had to be different. Tonight had to be as magical as the night he proposed if not more important. Because tonight marked the realization that their wedding was a week away. Shifting, she picked up the phone and answered her awaiting caller. “Carter?” she asked, hesitantly. “You presume, correctly, Dana.” A familiar, masculine voice flowed through the speakers. “Hi, darling,” she whispered, the tension leaving her shoulders at his soothing voice. “Listen, this call is to say goodbye, I don’t have time to explain…” “Carter, are you okay? Where are you? What’s going on? You never call me from this number.” Dana was suddenly anxious, fear pooled in her stomach, something was wrong. He never called this number, unless it was urgent, they always used their cells. “Don’t ask any questions, I can’t say. If you love me, then you’ll just listen.” Urgency filled his voice, and fear was curling low in her gut, something was off, the urgency, the fear, what was going on? Dana collapsed into the chair, and paused, placing her hands against her desk and leaning forward, eyes squeezing shut as she sucked in a deep breath. What could he be saying? Nothing was going to be happening to him, why was he calling to say goodbye? “I’m listening,” she stated simply. “I need you to know, that this doesn’t involve you. None of this is your fault, Dana.” Her brows furrowed, what wasn’t her fault? What didn’t involve her? Her mind was screaming with questions for him, none of this made sense. “Carter, I’m coming home soon, why are you talking like this? We’re getting married. You have nothing to worry about!” She insisted, her tone lowering a notch, at her co-workers stares. He chuckled bitterly, “That’s where your wrong, Dana. I have plenty to worry about.” “What. Is. Going. On?” Her voice trembled slightly, “Let me in, Carter. We don’t have any secrets. What are you worried about?” “Please, no more questions. The truth is we don’t have much of a future anymore, Dana. I never meant to get you involved...I’m sorry.” Carter’s tone expressed regret, but to Dana, he was a million miles away, as she processed this. Tears filled the bride-to-be’s eyes. “Carter, we’re getting married, why are you talking like this?” “Listen, Dana before I go I need you to know something.” He sounded urgent. Dana listened intently. “Of course, Carter, anything,” she promised. “I’ll never betray you.” “I know, that was one of the many reasons why I was marrying you,” he sounded heart-broken as she felt as he went on, “I need to say this one more time and you need to hear it. I love you Dana. I always will.” “I love you, too, Carter.” Dana responded, her voice thick with emotion. “Goodbye, Dana.” Carter finally said, and then the line went dead. Dana slammed the phone down, and sat there, stunned into silence. Goodbye? Was he breaking up with her? What was happening? She twisted her engagement ring absent-mindedly and slumped back in her chair. What was going on? She didn’t even blink when a warm hand closed over her arm, squeezing it gently. “Dana, it’s time,” Natalie called, worriedly. “The meeting. Remember?” “Of course. I’ll be in momentarily, Natalie,” she assured, visibly shaken. Dana sauntered through the big double doors, slowing to a stop in the middle of the conference room. She had to focus, this was her big chance, to really get to her employees, and then she and Carter could have a long talk and figure out what was going on with him. Clearing her throat, she began. “As you all know, I expect all tribune reporters to reach their full potential. At the Herald Tribune we print nothing but the truth.” Her smirk faltered. “Something has come up, however, and I’m taking a leave of absence. Hall has kindly offered to go over the basics with you.” She directed a shaky smile at her cub reporter, “They’re all yours, Amber.” Dana met everyone’s eyes steadily, slipping on her belted white trench coat. She walked to the bank of elevators and tapped her foot impatiently as the elevator made its slow descent to the lobby. Dana didn’t waste a moment; she exited the building swiftly out the rotating doors and into her Yaris. She had to talk to him, he’d said he’d always love her, as if it was the last time she’d ever hear it from his lips. As if she’d never see him again, the rich irony was that soon her worst fears would come true… Dana was jogging efficiently into the drive way and witnessed Carter’s almost painfully handsome face come onto her cellphone. Her heart felt like it was replaced by a boulder as she desperately grappled with her phone and tried to type back her love, but it was too late. Stars danced through her vision, the phone flew out of her hand. Dana’s ears were roaring with noise as she heard an ear-shattering KA-BOOM! And her house exploded before her eyes. Flames, red-orange and blinding consumed her small one-story home in rapid succession. Dana landed hard on her back, breath forcing its way out of her lungs as if there was no air in her body to begin with. A hot ember struck her on the cheek and she flinched, her arms going up to shield her head as smoke rolled out from over the pavement, debris sprinkling down from the sky as forms of charred wood and metal and pointy glass shards rained down like hell on earth. Dana had always hated feeling helpless, but nothing could compare to the feelings of despair she felt as she watched, completely and utterly helpless while her home burnt down to the ground. She lay for a moment in shock, focused on getting air into her burning, aching lungs. The air that was thick and hot with dust, sending her into an all-consuming coughing fit. “No,” she muttered helplessly, rolling onto her hands and knees as she pushed herself to her feet. “No.” A single name tore out of her throat. An anguished cry. “CARTER. CARTER!” Dana screamed, pushing her way through the smoke filled air. “CARTER!” He couldn’t be dead. No way on earth was her fiancé taken from her. He just couldn’t. They were survivors. They were going to get married and spend the rest of their lives together. Tears pooled in Dana’s eyes. Carter Hampton was dead. He had been in the house as it exploded. The cryptic phone call at work, the rarely used number and the declaration of love...it all made sense now. Somehow Carter had known he was going to die. Dana was not braced or ready for the deluge of overwhelming emotions that came to her as she lay crumpled on the ground. She was mounted with guilt, gut-wrenching pain, and soul-crushing sorrow. He was gone and a part of her soul had been torn out with it. He’s never coming back to me. Carter’s dead.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 03:15:33 -0600

Ok, I am going to step in here, as creator of this thread I thought I should say something. Yes, I stated in the rules to cap your posts at 1000 words, and I'd like to remind everyone of that. I stipulated this rule so we didn't end up with gigantically long posts. We are trying to help each other with the beginnings of our stories, so 1000 words should be plenty to get a feel for someone's style of writing, and also what they may be doing right, or wrong. This is not a place to be telling others what to do, so please refrain from doing so. Chaos-Insanity - this is the second time you have felt the need to say something, which I find highly annoying since one of your own posts is 160 words over the 1000 limit. Had it not been, I would not be writing this post. How about we get back to reading each other's work, and helping one another in any way we can. Thank you KAlast

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 09:15:29 -0600

This story takes place in a world, not much different from our own. The grass is still green. The sea is still blue. The sky is also still blue; when it is not covered by dreary grey cloud that is. And yet, it is different - in fact, from first sight, there is nothing to indicate just how different this world actually is. This world is technologically behind us by at least a thousand years. The people are living in an era, that we called the dark ages, but they don’t know that. Why is this the case, you may ask? I couldn’t really give you an answer, only that there are many different worlds in this universe, some more advanced than ours, some not so, some where the grass is red, some where there’s magic … Oh yes, there’s magic alright; and it exists in the world of our story, along with many forms of mythical creatures, some you’ve never even heard of … I could easily spend the whole chapter describing the many creatures that live in this world. Instead, I think it would be better if I just began the story. Yes, I think we’ll just jump straight in. We’ll start with the long journey of an old man. He’s older than he looks. By his age people normally have a crooked back and a limp, but he stood proud and tall and strode around with his big black boots stomping on the ground. This is how we first find him, walking in this manner, a determined look in his enthusiastic, grey eyes. He had been walking for several hours now. The pace was fast, and it was reasonably windy so his white robe fluttered dramatically around his ankles. His frizzy shoulder length grey and white hair was also thrown about by the wind. He was tired, but still he kept on walking. The fields around him didn’t seem to be changing, they all looked the same to him; still he walked on. He had a job to do, and he would stop at nothing to achieve it. It was a shame he didn’t know what the job actually was. All he knew was that the job was important. All he knew was where he had to go to complete this quest. The way he found out was not very pleasant. A young boy had died, in front of his eyes, by falling out of a tree. This was a few weeks ago now, but he still recalled it as vividly as if it were yesterday. He remembered how he was just leaving some village or other and he saw the boy hanging precariously off o branch at the edge of the forest. He was going to go to the boy anyway to try an help him but he got there too late. He wasn’t able to save the lad but he was able to run up to the boy just in time to hear his last words. “The palace of gold is the place that you seek!” The boy gasped in a voice that was much lower than it should have been for a boy his age. That was because it wasn’t the boy’s voice. It was the voice of the earth. This world has special ways of protecting itself. One way is by interfering in certain matters. It does this by using a thing someone once named the Artio. The Artio is the voice of the earth but it can only be heard by someone the earth itself had chosen and can only be spoken by someone who is near death and thereby closer to the earth. Evoss, the old man striding through the fields is the only person at this moment in time who can hear the Artio. He has heard it for years and has been following its advice. He could not count the deaths he had seen. Ever since he was eighteen, all the dying people he had come across all revealed some hidden truth that Evoss had used to make the world a better place. The instructions usually came in the form of a riddle, but Evoss had been doing this for so long now that the riddles were becoming much easier to solve. He knew straight away what was meant by ‘the palace of gold’. Not a palace made of gold but rather a castle that looked golden in a certain light. He had read about it in books. He had heard about it from travellers. He even knew its name. Lund-Frollio-Maccabaya! The journey to Lund-Frollio was a long and arduous one. Especially for Evoss as he lived rather far away from the place. He lived in the centre of the enormous mainland, whilst the castle was on an island to the north. That was where he was going. Why had he decided to go on foot? It was an awfully long way. Because you’re short on money! He reminded himself snappily. He didn’t have a proper job so the only money he had was the gifts and rewards he had earned and received on his travels as an Artio reader and magician. Not many people knew about the Artio, but they knew about magic. It was a rare gift though, not many people could do magic. So when people found out about Evoss’s powers, they were always asking him for help. The rewards were great and he had build up a rather large amount of money over the years, but as he had no constant income, and he had to spend his money on food, that amount was slowly decreasing. Soon he would end up with nothing again. So that was Evoss’s life, wandering around, following the Artio and completing little quests on the side. Not many possessions to call his own, and nowhere to call home. But something was going to change all that. This Artio was different to all the others.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Yah00 — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 16:32:03 -0600

Around midnight, Ash was suddenly very hungry. He licked his lips. Perfect timing, he thought to himself. All the stupid ones are out partying. Little do they know what is coming for them. He smiled. He was ready for a hunt. Ash was right about the good timing; midnight in the city never meant full darkness. At night, downtown glowed warm with city lights from streetlights, clubs, stores, and fluorescent signs scattered across the streets. The presence of the light always gave the night less appeal to him. But he had had to learn to deal with it. And though it was tolerable at best and very annoying at worst, the lights cutting through the black of night always meant one thing: vulnerable prey. And if Ash ever loved one thing, it was a good meal. From behind the curtain of the shadows, he waited. A group of girls walked by, giggling, squealing and clearly drunk. Ash’s eyes followed their bodies up and down: short skirts, heavy make-up, and ample chests. Typical, Ash thought, barely containing his annoyance. They seemed too…unhealthy. Ash clicked his tongue disapprovingly and expanded his gaze. Suddenly, he spotted a dark-haired man in drunken crowd. Ash couldn’t make out his exact features, but he acknowledged the man’s strength and pale complexion. But that didn’t matter. It only mattered that he seemed sober. It was unusual for humans out at this time but Ash, with further examination, noticed that the man indeed hadn’t started drinking yet, and wasn’t high. He would do. Ash wasted no time. He pushed through the crowd until he was a reasonable distance from his target. Still walking, the man barely turned around. Silently, Ash laughed to himself. This would be too easy. The man still had no clue who, or rather what, was following him. Surprisingly, guilt started to creep inside Ash’s mind. His people would not have approved of this. His kind was not made for this murder. What people? Ash then thought bitterly. He had left them behind. He wanted this. Didn’t he? In his momentary lapse, Ash realized he lost his victim. “Damn,” he said. He closed his mind off to the lights, the noise of the streets, and focused only on finding the man. His eyes quickly scanned, calculating the man’s exact location. There he is. The rest was almost too easy. In long strides, he caught up to the man, who standing outside a building; it was the latest club was called LA CIRQUE. He was cutting the long line and with only a brief glance at the bouncer; the man was let in. Ash could feel the resentment, anger and frustration the rest of the humans felt who were still stuck waiting in line. It made him almost feel bad for also cutting the line and being let in the club with as much ease as the dark-haired prey he was following. Almost. He smiled silently to himself. Now inside, he noticed the club was bizarre; it gave off an almost inhuman vibe. Something in the back of Ash’s mind went off. There was something Ash was missing. But the blinking, multicolored lights made his sensitive eyes hurt, and the smell of heavy alcohol mixed with other substances made the place almost unbearable. Besides, he was on a hunt. People were dancing on the floor as if in trance, which was fitting to the rhythm of the music. Most people were bizarrely expressionless – either from concentration or from the drugs. Girls propped themselves up against men who were more than pleased to have some female company. The dark-haired man was standing by the bar, turned away, talking to a blonde, curly haired girl in a tight green dress. From closer up, the man looked lean and muscular, yet he seemed a little strange. No, not strange—he seemed different. Ash couldn’t put his finger on it. His mouth salivated; he hadn’t realized just how hungry he had become. He had been so good for so long, and it felt so good to be bad. It felt natural to hunt, to feel his pulse quicken with adrenaline, and his powerful muscles tense. He was like a drug addict anticipating his next hit. All of his senses heightened. The blonde was giggling flirtatiously at something the dark-haired man said to her. “Baby, I hope I’ve mentioned that you look amazing tonight,” the man asked with hungry eyes. Listening in a little more, Ash learned the girl’s name was Rosaline. He felt her emotions as clearly as he felt the man’s. While the girl was flattered and a little drunk, the man felt – Ash didn’t know the right word— satisfied? No, he felt predatorial, Ash realized. He was now a predator hunting a predator. How ironic. The man escorted the blonde girl outside the back door, for privacy no doubt. A minor flaw in Ash’s plan, but he had to admit that he wouldn’t mind an appetizer along with his meal. Ash followed them out. The air was cool, and even with his superior vision, had a hard time seeing clearly in the shadows cast by the narrow alley. He saw the girl was pressed against the wall by the man; her breathing heavy and her fingers entwined in his hair. The sight of their intimacy made Ash’s heart go cold. He had known the price of his power, and yet… he knew he could never feel the same emotions that the girl felt. He considered himself, ironically, blessed with this lifestyle, but at rare times, it felt it was a curse. The jealousy he felt towards the man and the blonde turned quickly into anger. He positioned himself strategically behind the man; the perfect position to make the kill simple and sweet. The girl had been released from the man’s embrace and was leaned against the wall, almost unconscious. Ash’s hunter instinct told him this was the time to make his move, and he knew what he had to do. The motions had to be quick, to get both victims unconscious before they made any noise. He crouched down and began to pounce when--- The man with the dark hair turned around. A normal person would have had paled in shock at Ash’s canine-like appearance. A normal person would have been frozen in fear. A normal person would have screamed. Now, as Ash realized too late, the man was not a normal person. He was one of Ash’s own kind. Ash cursed. Both hunters froze in their place for a millisecond, silent communication passing through their clear eyes. The man had known what Ash was all along. Momentary shock gave the man a moment’s advantage. And that was all he needed. With one fluid, feline movement, he was on top of Ash, his lips parted in a smile. His teeth ripped through Ash’s flesh and blinding pain shot up in his arm. Ash mentally scolded himself while he pushed the man off of him. They circled around each other, waiting for the other to take the first offensive move. “This is my territory,” growled Ash. “Who the hell do you think you are?” “Let me make one thing clear. This,” he glanced around him, “is no longer yours.” Ash felt a deafening blow to his head, and then, darkness.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 20:28:36 -0600

Hi everyone, Just a tip, when making your post here, please take care of your format and put a line between each paragraph. Because we can't indent, or double space, it is making large blocks of text hard to read. The first thing an agent or publisher would do is put it down. We don't want them to put it down! KAlast

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 21:11:27 -0600

Hail 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. Playing with the salt shaker, he surveyed the diner, taking in the place that had basically become a home for him. Cantalen's Diner was one of those one of a kind, old-fashion restaurants that you only found in small town or large tourist attraction. The walls were riddled with vintage posters from the fifties and large records were used as place mats at every table. He was in here almost every hour of the day, save for the times he had taken to exploring the small town of Mansford. The staff had first thought his appearance strange, but quickly got use to him. A paying customer was a paying customer, after all. Yet, on this Sunday night, none of the regular waiters and waitresses were in. Instead, a new face greeted him when he sat down, her name tag reading, "Gwen". “If this was your fiftieth time in a diner this week, what would you order?” he said. 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 one saw in upscale restaurants. It was a soft orange and words had appeared to be written by hand to give the reader the "homemade" feel. It worked. He sniffed it, frowning when the smell of old ink and grease filled his nose. Gwen gaped, 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 the waitress looking at him as if he were an interesting science project. "Well?" he said raising an eyebrow. The woman had not answered his question. Gwen stuttered to reply as large brown eyes bore holes into her. "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. 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?" Gwen blinked at the boy's apparent confusion. "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 them the entire time. She looks like an unattractive lady bug. Liam observed the woman who had been making ludicrous hand gestures at him. Must be a human greeting. He pantomined her and Pete laughed. Liam took his laughter for approval and smiled, while Gwen looked like 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 off to the kitchen. 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. So wrapped up in his thoughts and wonders of this world, he didn't notice the figure at the door. Activity stopped. Liam and Pete 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. 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..." Over at the counter, Pete glanced uneasily between the two. 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 raced towards Liam. He lunged to the side. White-hot pain laced his cheeks as the blast grazed his face. It felt as if someone were melting the very skin from his face. Distantly he could hear screaming. A woman's scream. Rolling to his side, he was hit with a wave of nausea, a side effect from the the blast. He tried to use the table to steady himself, only to discover that where there had once been a table now stood a burnt stub. 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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

SpaceMarine — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 01:09:22 -0600

Here's mine: 1: "They were the last ship to arrive, long after the tide of refugees had stemmed to a trickle of one or two ships and we'd gotten the last transmission from New York. A year or two after that message a single ship shows up in orbit, blacked out with not so much as a whisper in response to control's frantic demands for identification. The alarm was sounded, the defense towers were armed and the civilians were rushed back inside the transports that hadn't been stripped down in preparation for evacuation in case they'd found us. Everybody was terrified out of their minds, I was just eight at the time, I remember that five mile long block of titanium as it eclipsed the sun above the desert encampment we'd scratched out for ourselves on this harsh world. If it had been the Ultimanium, we would have been doomed. That one monstrosity, maybe the ground cannons and the defenses on the transports could have put down, but at what cost? There would have been more of them coming in afterwards anyway, tens of thousands streaming from the world they took from us. There was no place left for us to go and our ships didn't even have enough fuel left to reach the nearest star system." "What happened?" Alyce asked from across the dung fire she and the four other guardsmen huddled around to drive off the below freezing cold of the desert night. Grant scratched his white stubble and sighed, did anyone teach history these days? The other guards, scraggly frail men in their mid twenties bundled up in thin greatcoats, teeth chattering and white knuckled hands wrapped around the frames of their assault rifles piped up in demand for him to continue. "Fine then, just as we were about to open fire, we got a response, a faint signal from their captain requesting all available armed forces to report to his ship as soon as it landed. People were practically cheering when word got around that it was a friend; my older sister broke down in tears, arms wrapped around me. Only when it landed about a mile outside the walls we'd built to keep out the desert monsters and the hunched over but burly men marched down the ramp to greet us, gunfire echoing out of the ship behind them, did we learn the full story. It was the Abaddon, out of New York just as it had fallen. They had been the very last ship off the Earth before it was overrun. The previous transports had left while we still held must of the U.S., parts of Asia and the Antarctic. None had come after because by that time the Ultimanium had set up enough orbital defenses to cage humanity in, shoot down anyone trying to leave. The Abaddon was different than your average transport, however. Built below Manhattan Island, it was far larger, far more powerful than anything before it, designed to break through the cage with its cargo of one hundred thousand souls and its factories and bioresearch labs. Just as the Ulties were marching through the U.N., just as the last dregs of resistance on the planet were being crushed, they lifted off, blasting through the surface and racing for freedom. They had broken through, taking down dozen of orbital gun platforms and sowing nukes across the Earth as they went, but one mothership containing a mobile war drone plant breached the hull and set up shop. By the time they had detected it, it had spread too far and built too many of those three eyed nightmares to be eradicated by what they had on hand." He paused, relishing the looks of horror on his squad's faces. A bitter wind whipped up, carrying with it the distant echoes of the howls of a pack of sandbeasts hunting on the barren valley floor behind them. "They didn't self-destruct their ship as several other vessels had done before when boarded, they didn't go into stasis and hope for a painless end. For all they knew they were the last humans in existence, an existence worth fighting for. No, they activated the factories and fired up their experimental cloning labs. And for ninety-three years they contained those ravenous machines while they crossed the gap between home and here. God knows how many died for humanity, how many times they had to vent the dead out the airlocks and clear those corridors, or how many times they ventured onto the outer hull to stop those things. In the end, time was on their side. With the help of those of us who already arrived, they finally put those things down once and for all, and we all got some small bit of revenge on the monstrosity our leaders created. That was thirty-six years ago; none of those machines have set foot on this soil since." He couldn't help but grin in pride, not for knowing of this feat, but for being a part of the race that had accomplished it. He lost that smile as he gazed into the perfectly clear starry sky and the two misshapen moons, at the pinprick of light they all knew to be earth. A bright red flare suddenly arced over the desert landscape, bathing it in its brilliant illumination. "That's the signal!" Garm yelled as he primed his clunky, duct-tape wrapped rifle and leapt up from his seat next to him, raising his rifle to his shoulder and peering through its night-scope. "What do you see?" Grant asked as he and the others leapt up and formed a line, spaced five paces apart, guns held by frostbitten hands aimed into the red distance. Everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief though; red meant the search team had found someone alive. "The sandbuggy, half a mile out and running in fast." He paused, puzzled at something. "And if I'm not mistaken there appears to be a sandbeast corpse wedge into the grill." Grant managed a faint grin. To his left Alyce remained worried. "Get the medical tent ready, we have survivors" Grant spoke into his radio. A minute later, there was a rumble as the twenty-four foot long wedge-shaped vehicle pulled up in front of them on its four head-height off-road tires, the horned sandbeast's corpse jammed firmly into its blood splattered grill. The red crosses painted on its doors glowed faintly from their fluorescent paint. Bellion and Garm circled around behind it and continued aiming ahead. Vance, Alyce, and Grant sprinted forward as the door popped open. Four figures stumbled out; the three medics, two of who were helping an emaciated man along. It took Grant a moment to notice the third was carrying a small boy curled up against the cold. "We got em'" the medic on the man's right shoulder said jubilantly as they hustled him past towards the solitary tent twenty feet behind. Grant caught sight of a grizzled bearded figure with a bandage across a shredded face and over the stump of his right arm. "Any problems?" Vance asked. "A few. This guy" he gestured to the man. "He held off a pack of Sandbeasts going after his son for three days with nothing but his semiautomatic hunting rifle and a knife. Three fucking days, out in the open with forty of those monsters coming at him from all sides." Alyce grinned; Vance laughed outright and punched the air. "We had to fight through the last dozen to reach him, and in the nick of time too, he'd just run out of ammo, lost his arm killing the first two to reach him." Grant nodded. He moved off to one side to access the radio tower they had unfolded before establishing this encampment to report their success. "Think maybe we'll have a solid roof over our heads by tomorrow?" Vance asked, grin illuminated in the dying flarelight. He thought back to the sandblasted spartan barracks in the middle of Varium City they called home. "Yes, yes we will." Once again, Grant felt himself swell up in pride for humanity, never say we die.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 11:56:21 -0600

Note: This is still the same story; I just keep changing the beginning, trying to find a decent place to start from. Otherwise, I end up with the literary equivalent of an MC Escher drawing. Sunlight fought to press through the thick gray clouds, to shine on a forgotten sinner. I approached the temple with caution, shoving past the pious gathered outside. Kokoro was standing on its steps, preaching to the awestruck people she held under her spell. She ended on a low note, predicting doom and disaster for the atheistic majority of the country. “This is it,” I thought to myself, smiling. This day, unlike any other that had come to pass, would be the one to decide the fate of the world. But what should be left in the hands of a fickle child, let alone one as unstable as Kokoro? The plans simple exterior belied its complex core; although the first stages really were that simple. Stage one: Bring about the downfall of King and Cat. First steps are oftentimes the hardest to make, and this was no exception. The temple doors opened behind me and I turned to face the unexpected visitor. Like brown tar, her hair clung with its own weight to her head. Grime accumulated over a week or more of not bathing made her appear darker than I knew her to be. I wondered as I stared in disgust at this greasy little creature, what made her do that to herself? What reasonable man, woman, or child would sit on the edge of a cathedral built by clever little men hundreds of years prior, knowing it could collapse at any moment but not caring in the least? Ransacked palaces of long-dead gods became the home of King, supposedly the Messiah that had been promised to us for thousands of years, the Messiah that never appeared. Cast into unfavor, the gods slowly but surely lost support, lost power over the masses as they gained the ability to do as a god was supposed to. To create a life in a laboratory; was it meddling in Nature’s work? Or was it just the eventual result of mans evolution; no one could say for sure. Shoving her chin into the crook of her elbow, King looked around the room like she suspected someone was watching her but no one was there. Shadows cast by the candles scattered around the room danced across her sunken eyes, giving the appearance that she didn’t have eyes. She had been standing like that for a while before she finally reached into her backpack and grabbed something. I stepped closer to get a good look at it but stopped short when King glanced up at me and gave me a look that would have frozen hell itself. A shiver worked its way down my back as I slowly backed up to where I was before. She snapped her fingers and gave me a sad smile. The smell of burning flesh hit me as I dropped to the ground in pain. Spasming worse than an epileptic, I attempted to put out the flames consuming me. Kokoro stepped out and looked at me. Her expression was serene despite the scene presented before her. I screamed and tore at my skin, trying with desperation to put myself out. Suddenly the flames were gone, replaced by snow and cold. The room around me had the curtain pulled on it as I passed out from the pain. When I woke, I was no longer within the hallowed walls that were home to Kokoro. No, now I was in an unfamiliar bed, covered and warmed by layers of blankets and furs. My heart skipped a beat as the fireplace crackled and spit embers into the dark room. I crawled out of the large bed and fell directly onto the cold stone floor. Rubbing my shoulder, I looked up at the bed and realized just how far it was from the ground. I stood on the tips of my toes and barely reached the white fur blanket I was desperate for. Pulling it down and falling again because of the weight, I made my way over to the fire, wrapping the blanket around myself for warmth. The curtain draped over the archway to separate this room from the rest of the...building moved out of the way as King shuffled into the room. Her joints popped with a horrific noise as she crouched beside the fire. “Hello.” I crawled away from the dripping wet gangster and shivered. The cold she had been exposed to radiated out from her core as she warmed herself. “Why did you kidnap me?” Her eyes ran over me harshly; if I had thought it possible, I would have said she was looking right into my heart, judging me silently. She shook her head slowly, each turn altering her expression from one of utter nothingness to melancholic. She took her sweatshirt off and placed it in the cauldron hung neatly above the flames. “I did not kidnap you. I saved you. She was going to let you die; you’re useless wounded, you know.” Each word slipped slowly from her lips like honey from a jar. I yanked at the gray and white pinstriped nightshirt she had dressed me in and looked for any scars, any wounds that would suggest she spoke the truth. There were none. “You lie! Kokoro would never harm me!” A growl tore itself from my throat as I struggled to move from my spot. “What witchery have you done to me? Why can I not move?” Panic rose up in my chest and spurred me to more aimless flailing. The insomniac who had done this to me, however, remained impassive.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 19:10:21 -0600

A pink-streaked dawn shed a soft glow across the city as the sun slowly rose. Bird calls split the air, beams of sunlight reflecting from the glass and metal of skyscrapers and steadily warming stone and brick of apartment blocks. Slowly, the city awoke, a chaos of people and vehicles and roads and buildings, an ever-shifting mixture of organic material and artificiality. Cars streaked along the dual carriageway that ran beside the river, streaked golden from the early morning sun, commuters making their way to work, while a train clattered across the tracks in the distance. The soft cacophony of morning sounds eventually managed to filter into Casey’s sleep-fogged brain and startle her into wakefulness. She jumped slightly as she opened her eyes to be greeted by the sight of sunlight streaming in through the large window beside her bed, before screwing up her face and rolling over, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. In doing so she almost bumped noses with the other inhabitant of the bed, blinking in surprise for a second before laying her head down again on the pillow with a tiny smile on her face. There was a pause of several moments, and then, as if sensing her presence so close, her husband slowly opened his eyes, his mouth curling into a soft smile as his gaze met her own. It was almost as if he had planned to wake up mere seconds after his wife did. He was often joking about his remarkable internal clock when his colleagues remarked on how punctual he always seemed to be for meetings and the like, but they had no idea how literally he meant it. “Hey,” Casey murmured with a grin, before leaning forward to give him a kiss. His lips were cold against her own. There was a pause, while she simply looked at him expectantly, before he blinked at her in apparent bafflement. “What? Have I done something wrong?” “One word. Breakfast.” Casey smirked as Rikani hurried to scramble out of bed in a flurry of limbs and perform a hasty bow once he’d reached the relative safety of the floor. “Of course, of course. Your humble servant made the terrible mistake of forgetting that Miss Layabout Writer is simply too tired to fetch her own breakfast and thus must have it done for – guh!” His sentence was cut off in a startled exclamation as Casey threw a pillow at his face. “Charming.” “You’re welcome,” Casey replied, sticking her tongue out. “Now hurry up. Miss Layabout Writer would like her morning egg on toast.” Rikani’s expression told her what he thought of her dietary tastes, but he knew better than to dispute it, heading off into the hallway with mock reluctance. Placing her hands behind her head and lying back on the pillows again, Casey reached for the remote control lying on the bedside table and pressed a button so the small TV placed above the bed swung slowly down from its placement and glowed into life, displaying a morning news program. She flicked through a few channels, pausing briefly to study with vague interest an antiques show in which a group of people were huddled over a large black box covered with buttons. “And now, what can you tell us about this, Kelly?” “This is an item for entertainment purposes, though the devices it was used to burn files onto became obsolete about a decade after they were first manufactured, to be replaced with discs that look much like those we still sometimes use today. This was known as a VHS player – as you can see, they were very large and were actually quite unreliable, but extremely popular – many households owned one-” Bored, Casey stifled a yawn and changed a few more channels before settling on a news program as the clattering sounds of Rikani preparing breakfast drifted up the stairs. He was usually so elegant in his movements that she sometimes had to remind him to deliberately act more clumsy so he would be able to pass more easily for a human, but in the morning, he was a little slower and had a tendency to walk into things more often. He was still booting up, after all. She half-watched the news for a little while, drifting back into a doze at a report about yet another country’s hurried currency conversion after another economic meltdown, followed by a summary of the status of the country’s main roads as reported by the satellite systems that were placed on every stretch of motorway to ensure as few people as possible were delayed on their journeys. Her eyes drifted open again at the final report of the program, and she sat up slightly, brushing a strand of black hair out of her face and yawning slightly, then paused when she heard a word she was all too familiar with. “Finally, some good news for you today. The police force has replaced its entire workforce of androids with the latest models, complete with high sentience levels and lightning-fast processors to allow them to communicate effectively with the public and leave the human police officers to do their work out on the streets where they belong.” “And what’s happening with the ones they don’t need any more, Robert?” the newsreader asked the holographic image of the reporter, who was standing in the office area of what was presumably a police station. Dozens of people sat in rows behind him, typing tirelessly away at computers, talking into headsets with little emotion on their flawless faces. The reported laughed softly, replying as Rikani headed back into the room with Casey’s breakfast on a tray. “We’ve been informed that since the old models have rather outdated CPUs, they probably won’t even be much use to send to primary schools to allow children to become used to using simple computers as planned. I’d imagine they’ll all be scrapped.”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Alice Rocker — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 15:21:18 -0600

From beginning to end And over again The light and the dark The near and the far A journey begins With no seeable end No connection That otherwise Differentiates it from the crowd But what might the point of an adventure be? If you don’t stay a while to see? If you pull it off the shelf Give it a look and shrug And give it back to the others On the shelf to hug Saying, “It’s just like all the rest” “Surely the one already have” “Could be considered the best” “If they’re all the same” “What differences does it make?” And get up and leave And get on with your life Rereading that same old adventure Much more than twice In this day and age It feels like we are caged By the books full of fantastical beasts And stories of witch craft Vampires and bad guys Who must have the last laugh And so we go home To the books that we know Each turn Each twist Each fallout Each kiss Nothing surprises us With a near miss But what’s the point? Of an adventure like that? Where there’s not anticipation No “what might happen next?” “Will they break up?” “Will she miss with that hex?” No “will they ever finish their quest?” Because we like to know Don’t we? I do And I bet You do too Human instinct Is to stay In your comfort zone Where you know What will come to be Each and every day But isn’t that why We let the characters In those fantasy books Take all the risks And dodge all the hooks? After all What’s the point of a book If we know what happens in the end? I’m not saying you’re wrong Or that I don’t agree But I have a request To you from me Next time you pick up That book from that shelf And give it a look Hoping for a new hook That doesn’t say vampires, wizards, or cats That are black That catches your eye With a brief wince of pain Not a stupid long poem That carries on to the next page Maybe a cliffhanger Or a queen Sentenced to death For betraying the king Take a second look At that book Because (And I know you’ve heard this before) (But trust me) (That’s what metaphors are for) You can’t judge it by its cover One look doesn’t tell the story One look doesn’t say what will happen next And that’s the real test Is it not? Not knowing whether to read on or not? So take a chance I implore you Not just with this book But the rest that lay before you Life is a journey And you choose the path Walking in a straight line Your whole life No change No risk No chance to take flight Doesn’t sound like much fun to me The same thing each day? What’s the point of living that way? For safety? I see But where would safety be? Without danger And peril The thrill of the fall? I’ve made my choice For better or worse And this the story About my choice And that of a girl Whom you will soon meet And what happened when we Took a step A little too close to the edge To see if we would fall Or take flight instead But that choice was mine And I can’t make you decide The clock keeps on ticking The next move is yours So What say you?* *This is usually in itallics because it's a poem

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

SpaceMarine — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 23:06:48 -0600

Updated version 1: "They were the last ship to arrive, long after the tide of refugees had stemmed to a trickle of one or two ships and we'd gotten the last transmission from New York. A year or two after that message a single ship showed up in orbit, blacked out with not so much as a whisper. I was at my radio, listening to static.” Grant paused for a second to let the words sink in. When he got no reaction from the four soldiers guardsmen listening in, he continued: “Well, the alarms were sounded, the defense towers were armed, and me and all the other civillians were rushed back inside the transports that hadn't been stripped down in preparation for evacuation in case they'd found us. Everybody was sobbing, terrified out of their minds, I was just eight at the time, I remember the sky going dark as that five mile long block of metal eclipsed the sun over the desert encampment we’d scratched out for ourselves in this harsh world. If it had been the Ultimanium, we would have been doomed. That one monster? Maybe the ground cannons and the defenses on the transports could have put down, but at what cost? There would have been more of them coming in afterwards anyway, tens of thousands streaming from the world they took from us. There was no place left for us to go and the crewmen on the transport kept muttering that it didn’t have enough fuel in its reactor to reach the nearest star system." Grant caught a grain of sand in his mouth and began to cough. He hacked grey phlegm onto the cold packed sand. "What happened?" Alyce asked eagerly from across the dung fire the little group huddled around to drive off the cold of the desert night. She was leaning in in anticipation, dust-caked brown hair dangling onto the legs she’d hugged to her chest. Grant scratched his white stubble and sighed at the eighteen year-old girl pretending to be a soldier, “doesn’t anyone teach history these days? Or have our high schools failed us?” he asked incredulously. Alyce gave a sad sigh and curled up a little tighter. “I got drafted before we covered that particular lesson. Now get on with the story before my ears freeze. The other guards, scraggly frail men in their mid twenties bundled up in thin greatcoats, teeth chattering and white knuckled hands wrapped around the frames of their assault rifles piped up in demand for him to continue. "Fine then, just as we were about to open fire, we got a response over all radio channels; a faint signal from their captain requesting all available armed forces to report to his ship as soon as it landed. People were practically cheering when word got around that it was a friend; my older sister and I broke down in tears in each other’s arms. Only when the ship landed about a mile outside the walls we'd built to keep out the desert monsters and the hunchbacked soldiers marched down the ramp to greet us, gunfire echoing out of the ship behind them, did we learn the full story. It was the escape ship Abaddon, out of New York just as it had fallen. They had been the very last ship off the Earth before it was overrun. You see, the previous transports had left while we still held must of the U.S., parts of Europe, and the Antarctic. None had come after because by that time the Ultimanium had set up enough orbital defenses to cage humanity in, shoot down anyone trying to leave. The Abaddon was different than your average transport, however. Built below Manhattan Island, it was far larger, far more powerful than anything before it, designed to break through the cage with its cargo of one hundred thousand souls and its factories and bioresearch labs, industries we’re using to this day” he gestured at their weapons. “Every day when school ended I’d run over to where they’d set up camp to listen to their war stories. It was impressive. Just as the Ulties were marching through the U.N., just as the last dregs of resistance on the planet were being crushed, they lifted off, blasting through the surface and racing for freedom. They broke through the cage, taking down dozen of orbital gun platforms and sowing nukes across the Earth as they went, but one mothership containing a mobile war drone plant breached the hull and set up shop. By the time they had detected it, it had spread too far and built too many of those three eyed nightmares to be eradicated by what they had on hand." He paused, relishing the looks of horror on his squad's faces. A bitter wind whipped up, carrying with it the distant echoes of the howls of a pack of sandbeasts hunting on the barren valley floor behind them. "They didn't self-destruct their ship as several other vessels had done before when boarded, they didn't go into stasis and hope for a painless end. For all they knew they were the last humans in existence, an existence worth fighting for. No, they activated the factories and fired up their experimental cloning labs. And for ninety-three years they contained those ravenous machines while they crossed the gap between home and here. God knows how many died for humanity, how many times they had to vent the dead out the airlocks and clear those corridors, or how many times they ventured onto the outer hull to stop those things.” “Damn” Vance whispered into his scarred palms. “Amen” Bellion added. They were too cold for full sentences. Grant waited for further remarks, then continued: “In the end, time was on their side. With the help of those of us who already arrived, they finally put those things down once and for all, and we all got some small bit of revenge on the monstrosity our leaders created. That was thirty-six years ago; none of those machines have set foot on this soil since." He couldn't help but grin in pride, not for knowing of this feat, but for being a part of the race that had accomplished it. He lost that smile as he gazed into the perfectly clear starry sky and the two misshapen moons, at the pinprick of light they all knew to be earth. A bright red flare suddenly arced over the desert landscape, bathing it in its brilliant illumination. "That's the signal!" Garm yelled as he primed his duct-tape wrapped marksman rifle and leapt up from his seat next to Grant. All eyes were on him as he raised the clunky weapon to his shoulder and traced the flares back to the ground through his night vision scope "What do you see?" Grant asked as he and the others leapt up and formed a line, spaced five paces apart, guns held by frostbitten hands aimed into the red distance. Everyone heaved a collective sigh of relief though; red meant the search team had found someone alive. "The sandbuggy, half a mile out and running in fast." He paused, puzzled at something. "And if I'm not mistaken there appears to be a sandbeast corpse wedge into the grill." Grant managed a faint grin. To his left Alyce remained worried. "Get the medical tent ready, we have survivors" Grant spoke into his radio. A minute later, there was a rumble as the twenty-four foot long wedge-shaped vehicle pulled up in front of them on its four head-height off-road tires, the horned sandbeast's corpse jammed firmly into its blood splattered grill. The red crosses painted on its doors glowed faintly from their fluorescent paint. Bellion and Garm circled around behind it and continued aiming ahead. Vance, Alyce, and Grant sprinted forward as the door popped open. Four figures stumbled out; the three medics, two of who were helping an emaciated man along. It took Grant a moment to notice the third was carrying a small boy curled up against the cold. Alyce’s eyes went to the tiny figure, filled with worry. "We got em'" the medic on the man's right shoulder said jubilantly as they hustled him past towards the solitary tent twenty feet behind. Grant caught sight of a bearded figure with a bandage across a shredded face and over the stump of his right arm. They caught sight of his face in the flickering firelight: grizzled and twisted in pain. "Any problems?" Vance asked the medic. "A few. This guy" he gestured to the man. "He held off a pack of Sandbeasts going after his son for three days with nothing but his semiautomatic hunting rifle and a knife. Three fucking days, out in the open with forty of those monsters coming at him from all sides." Alyce grinned in relief; Vance laughed outright and punched the air. "We had to fight through the last dozen to reach him, and in the nick of time too, he'd just run out of ammo, lost his arm killing the first two to reach him." Grant nodded. He moved off to one side to access the radio tower they had unfolded before establishing this encampment to report their success. "Think maybe we'll have a solid roof over our heads by tomorrow?" Vance asked, grin illuminated in the dying flare light. He thought back to the sandblasted spartan barracks in the middle of Varium City they called home. "Yes, yes we will." Once again, Grant felt himself swell up in pride for humanity as he recalled the old adage of those Abbadon foot soldiers; never say we die.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:26:46 -0600

This is the first half of my first chapter, which I am in a constant struggle with to get it to work properly. I have already fixed it a LOT, but it still has a long way to go and I'm really not sure where to take it. Please be as honest and strict as you can be, there's only one or two small things in here that NEED to stay the way they are, the rest needs to be there but can always happen in an entirely different way if it will make the chapter better. =) There is something magic about polishing leather until it gleams with a muted luminescence in even the dullest of lights. Watching the dirt and grime melt away until nothing is left but the supple hide underneath is one of my favourite pastimes in the world. A lucky thing then that I was the daughter of a saddler, with a mother who trained horses for a living. Summer evenings are always sleepy, quiet affairs in Bellaghy. Unlike the bustling cities and towns of the surrounding lands, the bucolic reality of life here is ever constant and reliable. That afternoon was like no other. Sitting in my Dad’s workshop, I was scrubbing an old bridle with his homemade leather soap, hands all wrinkly from the water when a shadow appeared in the doorway, blocking my light. “Excuse me sir, but I’ve been told you might be able to help me with my saddle.” My father looked up from his work bench where he was stretching a piece of damp pigskin over the seat of the saddle he was making to the young man standing in the doorway. “Yes, I might. That depends on what the problem is.” He wiped his hands and held one out to the boy. “I’m Conan.” “Jem.” Dad turned to me, half hidden from the doorway behind a stack of freshly tanned hides. “Maia, go outside and help.” “No, that’s alright,” he cut in before I could stand, giving me the oddest stare as his eyes slid past me. “I can manage by myself.” “But you need someone to show you where to put your horse in the meantime. The hitching rail is around the back, he can wait there for now.” Standing up, I took a halter hanging neatly from the row of pegs on the wall. He hesitated for a moment. “If you insist.” “I do have a halter,” he said, as we made our way outside to where the horse was waiting. I squinted as the morning sunlight hit my eyes, so bright after being inside the workshop. “You didn’t need to bring one.” “You’d be surprised at how many people travel without them.” My curiosity got the better of me. “I haven’t seen you around these parts.” “No.” “Have you come far?” “Yes.” “Where are you from?” He stopped and faced me, his expression unreadable. “Are you going to keep asking questions?” “Probably.” He rolled his eyes. “Here he is.” His voice softened when he spoke, and his horse whickered in response to his voice. I whistled as I sucked in my breath. “He’s beautiful. Is he alright if I...?” For the first time, the boy laughed. “Go ahead, he won’t bite.” His golden forehead was smooth and silky under my palm as I ran my hand up and down his face. “Hello boy, do you mind if I just put this head collar on you? It won’t be for very long, just until we can get this saddle checked out.” The stallion bowed his head, pushing my hand up into his long black forelock. “He likes you.” “Most horses do,” I replied as I quickly slid the halter on. “If you take the saddle off I’ll take him to the rail. Does he need a drink?” Jem nodded. “He might.” He undid the girth, murmuring words I didn’t understand to the stallion as he did so, before sliding the saddle off and carrying it easily on one arm back to the workshop. We stood there and watched him walk away, dark brown hair lifting gently in the breeze. The stallion snorted and nosed my hand. For a moment longer I stared at the disappearing boy until he vanished into the doorway of the workshop. “What a strange person he is,” I mused. “He can’t be all that very much older than me. He doesn’t talk much, does he?” I looked at the horse, and laughed. “And neither do you. You haven’t said a single word yet.” Once the stallion was watered and relaxing under the shade of the linden tree I made my way back to the workshop where Dad was investigating the saddle. “It’s definitely a broken tree. It’s not something I can fix properly but I can make you a new one, if you are willing to wait.” The boy looked alarmed. “For how long?” Dad was unperturbed. “I can usually get them done in a couple of weeks. I’d sell you one now only I haven’t got any that aren’t accounted for.” He only hesitated for a moment. “I would be very much obliged,” he spoke slowly, “but I’m afraid I haven’t any money.” My father waved it away. “If you have two hands that’s all the payment I require. I’ll make a new saddle for you and you help out around here in the meantime, is that a deal.” Jem nodded, thanked my father and shook hands. “Now,” Dad said, straightening. “You must be thirsty. Maia, please take our guest inside and get him something to eat and a drink, and inform your mother he’ll be staying for a week or two. I’ll be along once I finish up here.” “How did you break the tree?” I asked him as we walked towards the house. “More questions?” this time, he sounded slightly less annoyed than before. He sighed. “I dropped it in the dark one night when I was setting up camp. It fell down the bank I was standing on and the impact was just too much, apparently. It was an old saddle.” “My Dad always says you can tell a lot about a person from the condition of their saddle.” I cast him a sideways glance. “I can tell you look after yours.” “I do.” Conversation halted as we reached the house and I busied myself preparing a tray of biscuits and iced water. “So... do you mind if I call you Jem?” One corner of his mouth twitched as he sipped his water. “It is my name.” I grinned. “So Jem, tell me about your stallion. Where did you get him from?” He put down his glass and regarded me appraisingly. “Do you have horses, Maia?” “I have a mare, Minnie. My mother trains and breeds them. Dad just makes their saddles, and other pieces. I help them both.” “Then you will understand me when I say he is the only other living creature with whom I feel friendship.” The door burst open and my mother came in, fresh from the training yards. Never one to waste time doing anything, she put her hand out to Jem and introduced herself. “I’m Bianca. Conan tells me you’ll be helping out around here in exchange for a new saddle. I suppose that is your stallion sleeping at the hitching rail?” “Yes, he’s mine. It’s nice to meet you. You seem to have a lovely establishment here, from what I have seen of it.” “Best in Bellaghy.” It wasn’t an idle boast either; winning the prestigious Blackmarsh Cross Country Challenge three years running had done a lot to bolster our family’s reputation in the horse world. “Well, I hope you enjoy your stay here. How good a rider are you?” My mother’s frankness and speed at changing her line of direction caught him off guard and he laughed again. The sound brought out a faint accent I hadn’t noticed earlier. “I can manage pretty well.” Mum echoed his laughter. “Good, maybe you can show Maia a thing or two.” My cheeks flushed. “Mum, I’m perfectly good and you know it. Have a biscuit.” She took one and left again. “Sorry about that,” I told him, about ready to die of embarrassment. “I’m so used to my mother I forget sometimes how alarming she can be.” “That’s alright.” One corner of his mouth pulled up into a smirk. “So, how good are you really?”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 16:06:30 -0600

(All of the below is important to the story) _______ A loud sound of colliding and crashing metal, an airbag exploding forward, his son’s body crashing forward were the first things that came to his mind as he glanced around him, his car twisted into a huge metal madness, the sirens blaring in the distance. My son. Logan. Where’s Logan?!?!? He frantically thought as he tried to stand, tears filling his eyes. “LOGAN!” He screamed. “LOGAN!” There was no response as paramedics surrounded him, and firefighters ran to the wreckage. “LOGAN!” He screamed, his voice hoarse. He collapsed to his knees in utter despair. “LOGAN!” The paramedics gently lifted him off of his knees and tried to load him onto a stretcher. Ben tried to take it all in as he pushed them away, watching the firefighters as they lifted a bloodied body out of the wreckage. His heart sank as he realized. He knew. “No, no, NO! No God, no, please no!” He sobbed as he saw the paramedics kneeling over the boy, shaking their heads. One more errand. They would’ve been home in 15 minutes. Logan had been so eager to pitch in his first baseball game. “Dad, thanks for convincing Mom to let me play baseball today.” “Well buddy, that’s what your dad is here for, right?” “Seriously, thanks. I love you dad.” That was the last thing Logan had said to his father. Ben cried as he tried to catch a breath, his heart pounding. “I love you too son.” He whispered with tears running down his face, no longer struggling to keep it all in. And the world felt like it was ending. ~ Macy wiped the sweat off of her forehead as she looked over at the backyard. The kids weren’t there. That was strange. But then she smiled. Knowing her children, they had probably snuck into her bedroom to watch the television. “I suppose I can let them watch TV as long as they don’t run around here.” she said, turning back to her work. “Mom!” Cassidy shrieked from the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” Macy asked her daughter breathlessly. “The car- it’s, it’s Dad’s!” Cassidy said, pointing at the TV. Macy cast a quick glance at the screen. The shot was focused on a twisted white Honda civic. It was Ben’s. “Get your brothers and play in the living room.” Macy said, putting her hands over her mouth as she watched the shot and read the headline. Cassidy nodded and quickly left. “No God, please, no! Don’t take my baby away from me!” Macy sobbed, watching the coverage as the firefighters lifted a young boy out of the car. The shot went from the boy to a kneeling man, his dirty brown hair matted with blood. He was obviously upset, and shamelessly sobbed at the scene. “Oh God, please help us!” Macy half-screamed, sobbing in despair as she sank to the floor, unaware of the children eavesdropping on the other side of the door. And her world had shattered to pieces.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Rachie615 — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 00:33:11 -0600

The alcohol was starting to have an effect. The lights in the room brightened, reminding him of oncoming traffic lights obscured by rain. Holding his head upright had certainly become more of a challenge, but he felt lighter, freer, no need to think anymore, no need to contemplate. "Here one more. Just one more." He shook his head and pushed Robert's hand away. "That's it. Come on. Come on pre-birthday drinks. How are you going to survive next weekend." Robert shrugged his shoulders and downed the amber liquid. "I brought two, you know." He pushed the shot glass into Bertram’s fingers and pushed his fingers closed over it. "I've done half the work. Down the hatch. Come on college boy, didn't they teach you anything there?" "Yeah not to fraternize with the enemy." "Me. The enemy. Ha. We're having a good time. We've been in the office too long." Bertram looked at the drink in his hand and thought of waves crashing against the shore before tilting his head back. "There you go." "No more." "Sure. No more. You can still walk straight can't you?" The world tilted a bit to the left and now the lights were blaring. "Yeah. Sure I can walk straight.” "By the way, how old are you next week?" "Twenty-five. Maybe." He heard himself say and then he laughed. "Maybe twenty-six." "You're not that old of a man. Don't tell me you can't remember. You're like my Uncle. He's been telling us he's sixty-three for the past five years. I guess it all starts to run together." "I feel that way." "What way? Like an old man. Yeah I feel it too sometimes." "Like it all ran together, a long time ago, that this is my purgatory." He tried to focus on Robert's face with his one eye that still worked through the overhead light overexposing everything around him. "You get that feeling?" "Hmmm." Robert took a drink of beer. "Don't know. I know my nose is tingling." "Yeah. It's a little like that." "I keep thinking about that film." Bertram said and picked up the empty shot glass. "There's something about it. Can you remember what it was about?" He flipped the shot glass on its side and began to role it back and forth in between his fingers. "Can you remember that actress?" "Huh. I don't know. Why do you care?" "I just keep thinking about it I don't know." "I never knew you for a sentimental drunk." "I'm not drunk." His elbow slid against the table and he caught himself with his palm. "Not too much at least." "Come on. Time to get out of here." Robert slid across the booth and stood up wavering briefly on his feet, but then steadying himself. "Come on war hero, let's go." He stretched out his hand, but Bertram slid across the booth and pushed himself upwards, keeping a steadying hand against the table once he found his feet. The world titled a bit, but remained mostly in its right place and he let go of the table. He navigated on autopilot, unsure of how each foot found its way in front of the other, but managed to make it to the door without tripping and in a relatively un-serpentine like fashion.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fuzz — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 06:57:45 -0600

“I am either the world’s greatest fool or Apera’s greatest hero. I suspect I am a mix of both,” No answer. Irida moved a finger to trace the silver pendant around her neck. Paused. That familiar weight was gone. That chain had hung around her throat for so long that she now felt naked without it. Naked and alone. It was an unpleasant combination and yet somehow the maelstrom of powerful emotions she had weathered recently made her hollow. There was nothing left of her to feel this new pain. That was good, because it left her with some measure of peace for her quiet reflection. One thought hung large and ugly at the forefront of her mind – had she made the right decision? She lifted her face to the sky, Ether, watch me and only me this night. The clouds swirled like curls of molten ore and the silent morning held its breath, as though it knew what was to come. The wind that caressed her skin and cooled her blood whispered tauntingly of unspoken secrets and unfulfilled possibilities. “Your temptations cannot sway me,” she told the day softly, “My path is chosen, the hard road past. All I must do now is walk forward,” Still, the city was beautiful. Apera’s capitol, Awnn was always the loveliest in those sparing moments after the moon had fallen and the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. It was normally peaceful but now the glistening grey looked only like the ether above the stars. It interrupted her introspection, stirring thoughts better left at the bottom of her mind. The force that had created the world was not meant to be sentient and so it should welcome back her stained soul as though it were purest light. A force of nature could not judge sins. But if she truly believed that, then why had she only then prayed to the entity? The sun began to rise, bleeding scarlet over her silver sky. It was time. She wished again for the comfort of her pendant but reminded herself not to be selfish. She had already let the poor shade within the necklace die once and to repeat history would only be cruel. She looked one last time over the city she had made her home. Light struck on the distantly white walls that guarded Awnn’s rest. Bright, too bright, an accusation to her guilty soul. The grounds of the castle spread beneath her, an opulent square of patchwork in a wide sea of dirty brown. It was not good, this divide between nobleman and peasant. Once Awnn had been more prosperous but the War of the Dead had hurt Apera badly. It had not been a popular war. As the men loyal to the crown had fallen in battle, the number of rebels back in the capitol swelled like a malignant pustule. House Faolan held the castle still but everyone who cared to look knew that the rebels held the city. It no longer mattered to Irida, although still she feared the revolution to come. The rebels’ regime change would cost first the capitol of Awnn and then all of Apera, rivers in blood. She reflected a moment, on her life and what she had achieved. She had been a daughter, a sister – for far too short a time – often a lover, always a mother but never a wife. She had been a healer, a necromancer, and a councillor. She had held more power than most women from as poor a background as she were capable of conceiving. She had mixed with kings as an equal and often she had been a truth-teller, a voice of reason when thick skulls prevented thought from reaching mouths. For the past six years, she had been a prisoner. No longer. She turned away from her balcony and strode quickly through the unnaturally silent chambers that she held in the castle. Once she had called them home but they were no longer that, not without the shouting of boisterous children or the mewling of her daughter’s cat. There was nothing left worth gazing upon, nothing to be reflected on that she had not already mused over. Her plan was carried out, no problems left to try and foresee. Walking briskly, she left her rooms, picking up a small velvet bag from a table on her way without breaking stride. As soon as she emerged into communal hallways, she gathered a following of servants. Oh, they were subtle about it but since her ‘mental breakdown’ six years prior, they had always been present. It was not uncommon for mages gifted in the subtle magics to misplace their sanity. There had not been one moment in the past twenty years that Irida had not been assaulted by the glow of an aura or the flare of a detached soul. Magesight was not truly sight in the conventional sense and so rather than blinding you, the ceaseless stimulus wore at your mind. However, Irida was not yet insane. Her famous breakdown had been her response to a threat. The king, Bryant Faolan, a man that she had once cared for, had shown his true colours. He had backed Irida into a corner she hadn’t liked it. She could still remember the hot tongues of rage that had driven her to walk around the castle throwing around so much magic that she collapsed with fatigue and screaming so loudly that she had lost her voice for days after. It had been a mistake, for then Bryant had been given an excuse to restrict her movements. It always smarted when even now, noblemen and women used her supposed madness to dismiss when her views conflicted with theirs. She loathed the toxic sympathy and the furtive glances, eyes that would not quite hold her own.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

louisebrooks — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 14:37:16 -0600

I used to always be an early riser but I had fallen out of the habit. By the green light of the digital clock on the oven, I saw that it was almost eleven a.m. and I hadn’t even opened the curtains yet. I gripped the faded fabric tightly. I wanted the apocalypse to have started. Burning bodies lying in the dark, survivors moaning for water. The devil to walk the earth, pulling sinners down to hell. I wanted to look out on the decaying remains of our world, to smile at the folly of humanity that we thought we were indestructible. The destruction of the world would match the destruction in my life. I pulled the curtains aside and was blinded by the brilliance of the distant sun. I turned my back on the world and hunted for cups in the cupboard. I stood on my tiptoes, craning my neck to see if there were any hiding out of reach. Out of desperation, I reached out and felt to the back. A small amount of dust cleaved to my fingers but there were no cups. I slammed the door shut. In the sink, which had been spotless only the day before, was a pool of stagnant water and, protruding from the murky depths, was the smooth curve of a cup’s handle. I looked at the greasy, bacteria-laden water before rolling up my sleeve and plunging my hand into the icy liquid. Ignoring the lumps and chunks that scraped against my fingers, I dug out the plug and listened to the water gurgle as it was sucked away. I shuddered. The grease and dirt clung to my fingers. I turned the tap on and scoured first my hand and then two cups under the hot water. “Tea?” I said, not waiting for an answer. I filled the kettle, clicked it on and turned to greet Serena. Before I even turned around I knew how she would look; perched on the kitchen counter, still in her PJs, tousled hair, eyes still blurry from sleep. She was not there. No matter what spiritualists would have us believe, people don’t just come back from the dead. Least of all Serena. The kitchen counter was empty, of course, exactly how it had been every day for the last few weeks. A tidal wave of misery was poised to crash down on my head but I did not want to give in. Emptiness exploded upwards from inside me, trying to reach the grief over my head. I tried to contain my loneliness, not to give in. Not this time. Not today. Not whilst the sun was shining and I had so many plans. I put one of the cups back in the cupboard and got out one teabag. I needed only one. One plate, one bowl, one knife, one spoon. I was one person now. I had always been one person; I had all my limbs so why did it feel like something major was missing? I used to work at the summer playgroup every morning but that had very quickly fallen through. The children had been so full of energy, so excited with everything, so full of life. They were everything I was not and I had begun to resent them for it. We made paper mache heads using balloons and strips of newspaper. We went on nature walks through the woods collecting leaves and twigs. We decorated biscuits with icing sugar. Everything smelt permanently of glue and sweets and fruit juice. And all the time they pestered me with questions. There were questions that were uninteresting (why is it darker in winter?), there were questions to which I knew the answer (“why don’t birds die when they land on electric wires?”) and there were questions I did not even want to think about (“why do people die?”). I ran from the noise into my silence. The playgroup continued without me. Soon school would start again and the world would roll on without me and without Serena. All the things we used to do were undone. All the places we used to go were empty. All the things we used to say were silent. I poured the hot water into the cup and stirred it with my spoon. There were so many used to’s, so many could haves or would haves. I could stand stock still for half an hour and list as many as I could and not reach the end. Not today. I drew myself up nice and tall. I was not going to give in today. I went to get the milk out of the fridge. The fridge was milkless. And it was yet another thing that I had forgotten to do and it was my fault. I pressed my fingers against my eyes and tried not to cry.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

RobWeb13 — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:15:44 -0600

“The baby dolls have very sharp teeth!” The blue haired girl shouted at me before dashing off into the mist which engulfed the forest. I looked around helplessly, the fog surrounding me was much too thick. The others from the camp were already far and off running. A screech startled me and another bombarded me from a different direction. My first instinct was to turn and run: Run away from whatever monstrous beasts were rushing toward us and thirsting for our blood. I knew that by simply standing there, boots settling in the ground, I was only lessening my chances of survival. I lifted one foot and thrust behind me quickly and then let my body follow, spinning around and setting off. One quick and heavy step after another, speed increasing. I let my head and upper body whip around slightly to spot the incoming dangers, something I knew I should never do. Years worth of action/adventure fiction exploration led me to believe as soon as I opened my eyes and saw what was behind me I would be mauled. “Come on,” A sharp female voice and then my arm was being yanked up a tree. I leapt from one conveniently placed branch to another behind the pink haired girl. She was much older than me, probably sixteen or seventeen. Her legs were bleeding and her backpack was ripped open and pills were cascading out of the main compartment. I felt my lips part to inform her of the flawed backpack but no words came out. I stopped at one branch, slapping my hand to my throat as I tried to scream and again not a single vibration. No sound escaped my lips. Wide eyed and terrified I hurried back up the tree, finding the pink haired girl crouched with a girl whose hair was short and bright purple. “Who’s she?” The purple haired girl demanded. The pink haired girl shrugged and then averted her gaze. “Know any spells?” One of them asked me. I couldn’t see either of their faces as they were both crouched and looking over the edge of the leafy branches at the dark and foggy forest floor. “Spells?” I said, then remembering that I had no voice. I lifted my hands as if I were confused and then gestured at my neck, opening my mouth and trying to signal that I’d lost my voice. “Can’t speak?” The girl with purple hair asked, standing up. Her eyes were vicious and criminal, she had blood on her face. “Is that right?” The pink haired girl focused on the forest ground. A gaggle of scorpions scattered across the patch I could see through the fog. I nodded, giving a weak and apologetic smile. The purple haired girl stepped widely over the pink haired girl and patted me on the shoulder. “So you’re useless?” The girl said, her hand gripping tighter on my shoulder. I felt her jagged nails pressing into my skin even through the multiple layers of clothes I wore against the winter chill. “Pity,” she said. I looked to the pink haired girl who’d randomly grabbed me and dragged me up to this little safe place and she only avoided my stare. The purple haired girl sucked her teeth one last time and then raised a brow before using all of the force she had to hurl me from the tree. The falling sensation was indescribable. I could only look up and see the purple and pink fading away through all of the fog and then I felt the hardest thump I’d ever experienced. My chest went hollow and my legs were numb and couldn’t move. I gasped for breath but none came to me. No breath came to me but I felt the warm and intimidating breath of someone else on my neck. Something else. I moved my neck just as much as I could and saw a wolf, fierce red eyes and teeth covered in dried blood. A whacking and then the wolf was sent flying, a sore whimper its final utterance. I found the strength to lift my head and prop myself on my elbows, finally inhaling a shallow breath and then a few more. I searched for whatever hit the wolf but found nothing. It was when I heard the sound of a zillion tiny feet against the forest floor that I used all of the strength that I had and clambered to my feet. The floor shook beneath me and I gazed in terror at the forthcoming army. Millions of tiny spider-like creatures scattered about the forest and darted towards me from ahead. The shocking realization that the creatures were not spiders at all was enough to send me starting back away and then full into a run away from the army of frightening beings. Baby doll heads affixed to scratched and bruised torsos, four doll legs and arms on each side. They were shattered and cracked and had eyes missing, blood dried on their hollow heads which were mostly missing chunks of plastic. The creatures uttered a high-pitched shriek as they dashed toward their prey. There was nothing I could think to do, I questioned my motivation for running, really. I felt a jab at my leg and wanted to stop but instead continued to run. Another jab caused me to look down as I felt blood trickling down my ankle. Small thorn endowed vines were rising from the ground, growing higher and attacking me as I ran through them. I observed in fright as I hurried through the forest and saw the vines rear back before flitting toward my ankles and legs and jabbing their vicious thorns into me. “OW!” It was all I could do not to double over and clutch my bleeding legs. Suddenly the vines were too tall, I couldn’t run through them anymore as they reached the same height as my waist. I whimpered and cried as a tendril planted its thorn into my leg and began to wrap around, pulling me down to the ground. Another vine pulled me up and wrapped around my waist. I writhed, possessed in mid air in the pitch black forest by wisps of stocky green plant that bore malicious thorns on every inch. I knew my life was ending, the breaths were escaping shorter and one-dimensional. I couldn’t feel my legs any longer, I didn’t try to kick or pull away. I listened, anticipating an intimidating noise. A beast to come and finish me off. On cue I saw the flames burst around me, all of the vines retracted and slithered back into the ground except for the ones that held me so tightly. They only rose, as if they could escape the flames that were eating through the woods and illuminating the scene at an unusually fast pace. I cringed as the vines burned to a crisp at the root and I was left to fall into the roaring pit of fire beneath me. And then I woke. “Jeez,” my mother’s voice was only a bit annoyed. I opened my eyes and dried the small tears that were pent up along the corners. “Morning,” I said, yawning a bit and sitting up in my bed. I slept calmly even through such a strenuous and exhausting dream: My pastel, floral quilt was still folded neatly over me and still perfectly even on each side. “Good morning, birthday girl!” My mum cried as she noticed that I was finally awake. She was standing over my bed in her favorite floral cardigan and striped shirt. Her khakis were nicely pressed and she looked marvelous. “What do you want to do for your big day?” She asked, hurrying over to the wall opposite my bed and tugging the curtains open to reveal the sunny cityscape. I pulled out from my covers and pulled down my nightdress as it rose dangerously. “I don’t know,” I said lightly, pulling down a sweater and shirt from my closet. I crossed over to the window and drew open a drawer from the dresser beneath it, extracting a pair of navy blue chino pants. “No big ideas? Maybe a movie?” I frowned and shook my head. I shrugged, “we can go for a walk in the city,” I offered. “Shop around a bit, have lunch.” “If that’s all you want to do,” mum said. “That’s what we’ll do!” She gave me a hug and walked out of my bedroom, shutting the door behind her. I took my clothes into the bathroom and pulled the curtain over my toilet open to admire the glowing orange and yellow reflections against the glass of the skyscrapers around me. Twenty minutes later my mum and I were exiting the elevator of our apartment building and walking down the streets of Elima East, the city we called home. Glorious shops fluttered down the crowded streets, high-tech and modern designs flaunting their worth. “Elima East’s best!” A plump woman wearing a slinky silver dress called from a large digital screen above the obnoxious crystal building. The top designers paid for the most expensive architecture and advertising strategies. “Where do you want to eat?” My mom asked me as our feet trumped along the pavement. “Don’t know,” I said, admiring a fashionable dress in one of the windows that was covered in owl print and paired with a pretty pair of boots. It was high-end and obviously very expensive. “I want some macaroni,” I confessed. Mum laughed, “I know just the place!” She smiled giddily and took my hand. I wondered if I were a bit old for that. To hold hands with my mum. Twelve? Well I did look particularly young for my age. And I knew that it was the right thing to do. Besides, who was I worried about to judge me? It wasn’t like I had any friends in school. I was much too... nerdy. Too smart. The sun was beginning to hide away behind a pack of enormous grey clouds sweeping in from every direction. A few thunderous booms cascaded down the skyscrapers and my mother pulled a small cylindrical item from her purse. It was one of the new, fancy umbrellas that were called Compacts and opened to be just a big as a regular umbrella. “Luckily we won’t need to use this just yet,” My mum said. “We’re almost at all of your favorite shops! Would you rather eat first, though?” I shrugged, excitedly seeing little girls run out of the doll shop. “I am hungry, but first there is something I’d like. You can’t laugh. I’ve wanted one for some time, though it isn’t exactly ‘in character’ of me.” My mum’s high heels clicking against the pavement matched the bouncing of her short black hair. “What is it, Sawyer?” She asked with a chuckle. “I really want to make one of those dolls,” I admitted, looking down at the ground. Mum stopped and put both of her hands on my shoulders. “Look up at me, Sawyer!” I did. “You shouldn’t be ashamed to want a doll! Why would you be, anyway?” Her eyes were sincere and caring. I shrugged, “I don’t know. To be twelve and wish for a doll isn’t very smart,” I said. “I mean, I never usually want toys.” “Not very smart? You’re the smartest little girl I know! In fact, quite the smartest person I know! And well, I think those dolls are lovely! They’re things you can keep with you forever, and then one day you can pass it down to your children, as well!” She kissed my cheek. “Come on, let’s go and get you a doll.” I smiled widely up at my mother and nodded, laughing as we ran over to the large magical looking doors to The Doll Factory. “Welcome to The Doll Factory!” A smiling young girl wailed. She hurried over to us and took out a huge black marker and a pad of stickers from the pocket of her obnoxious orange trench coat. “Your names?” “Sawyer,” I said. She scribbled my named onto the sticker that read “MY NAME IS” and then used a swirly in the ‘S’ and made the ‘Y’ into a heart with a tail. “And you?” The girl asked, wide eyed at my mother. My mother laughed, “Kathleen,” she said. The girl stuck the nametag to my mother’s chest and then stuffed the items back in her pocket. “All right, so, as you can see by my name tag,” she pointed to her own. “I’m Sarah! I’ll be helping you out today.” “So is it a special occasion?” The girl asked as she led us from the small orange and pink and circular entrance and through a swinging golden fence to a bustling room with large stairs and tons of children hurrying around with their mothers. The walls were striped—a dark and light pink—and the floors and ceilings were gold and white. “My birthday!” I said excitedly, looking at all of the girls running about with their brand new dolls. Tons of different scents filled their air as some girls ran from the basement. The Doll Factory was famous for its hidden candy store underground as well as its cloth or plastic dolls with fully customizable features. “What?!” I shouted. From above some girls were laughing over the golden banister and then rushed away to the clothing department on the second floor. I rubbed my head and looked down to see the small doll that had been tossed at my head. I picked up the doll and held her small body in my hand. She was wearing a pink dress and no shoes. Her skin was an innocent pale yet she was dirty. Her back was open and there was no stuffing inside of her torso, but her attached limbs and head were properly stuffed. The doll’s hair was made up of bright blue strands of yarn and her mouth was smiling, her eyes were simple and black and white. “Oh, so, so, so sorry!” Sarah squeaked, grabbing the doll from me. “This is one of the defective dolls, see how its tag has a black X on it?” She was right. The pink paper heart attached to the doll by a string had a black X. I saw that the name “Pinky” was scribbled across the heart. “Sometimes we’ll have dolls that have something wrong with them,” Sarah said in her unusually high and patronizing voice. “That’s what defective means. It doesn’t work right like all of the other dolls!” I placed my hand on my hip, “I know what defective means.” “Oh, okay, right, of course!” Sarah managed, taken a back. “Let me just go toss this doll, you—” “No!” I said. “I’d like that one! I think she’s pretty.” My mother placed her hand on my shoulder, “Are you sure? Don’t you want to go and get one of the other ones? They’ve got tons for you to choose from. Come on, we’ll get you a nice plastic one!” I looked at my mother seriously, “No, I really like this doll. Pinky is her name. I want to get her. She has character. Besides, just because one person thinks she’s defective doesn’t mean she really is.” My mother nodded proudly, smiling and looked to Sarah whose face was construed and she held the raggedy doll out for me to grab. “You guys can just go on to the stuffing station, then.” Sarah waddled off and greeted more customers. I walked with my mother to the stuffing station where they take the cloth doll and let you kiss the cloth hearts and then make a wish before they sew the heart in the doll. My mother stood behind me, her hand on my shoulder as I kissed the pink polka dotted heart and then handed it to the girl who was running the stuffing machine. “Can my mum kiss one, too?” I asked sweetly. The girl smiled, “Of course!” She handed my mother a heart, red and striped. “Make a wish, all right, mum?” My mother smiled and did so while kissing the heart before handing it to the stuffing girl. After Pinky was stuffed and finished we took her to the registration zone and they officially made me her adopted mother. It was official for me, anyway. “I’m so glad I got her,” I said, holding Pinky by her torso as we walked down the street toward the restaurant. My mother was smiling more, “I’m glad that you’re happy! It was really very kind of you to take that doll, you know.” “Thanks.” The restaurant was right around the corner and set up cozily between two tall buildings. It was called ‘PJ’s Gourmet’ and so we were seated in a wooden booth and had our sodas brought out to us and they were placed on red gingham towel that covered the table. “I’ll have the macaroni,” I told the waiter, handing him my menu and then sipping my cola. “I’ll have the same,” My mother said politely, handing him the menu as well. “Well, I’m really hungry. Aren’t you?” I nodded, looking down to make sure Pinky was still seated next to me in the booth. She was. “Yes, very hungry!” I said with a laugh. “So maybe we could go to a movie or something after this, since it’s getting rainy outside. How would you like that?” “A lot! I’d love to go to the movies!” I squealed. “So I was—” The lights in the restaurant went dim and then a green glowing light was emitting from behind the booth. A few people were gasping and the sounds of various silverware clanking became annoying. “Sawyer Laurent,” a voice purred. Before I was able to process what was happening the green glow became brighter and then suddenly appeared on the table in front of me. I sat, horrified, as I noticed what it was: A glowing Emerald necklace. The large emerald stone finished glowing and the lights were returned to the establishment. The other guests were looking on in shock and terror. I picked up the Emerald necklace. The golden chain was so tiny and minute compared to the emerald that was easily four inches wide. I examined the emerald to see a small scroll inside. Sawyer Grace Laurent Selected for Oneiris April 13th 2033 6:30 PM Laboratory 4A 9135 Lookbark Way I looked to my mother next, her eyes were watery and I understood why. Because in four hours I was to report to the laboratory and become a subject for the experiment. Because I had no choice but to go, because if I tried to run, they’d find me and my fate would be much worse. Because no matter what... I was about to go to sleep forever.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

luckyomally — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 14:03:58 -0600

(I estimated the length of this). I opened the door to my new room in Parva, Louisiana and was unexpectedly pleased to see a spacious room almost identical to the one at home. It even had a similar window in the right corner; complete with multicolored plush pillows. My new bed was topped with a silky duvet, just the way I like it. The headboard was mahogany wood, the wood of peace; it enticed me. Suddenly, I was very sleepy. I pulled back the covers to take a quick nap. Before I could even react, a six-foot copperhead spitefully hissed at me. I shrieked in utter shock, and then in a fuzzy haze proceeded to back out slowly and innocently, just like they did it on the animal channel. The snake jumped to the floor – snakes can do that? – and slithered maliciously towards me. It opened its mouth really wide, and… Started vibrating? My eyes popped open as I jolted awake, my breathing jagged. I sat up in my bed, clutched my silk duvet with a clammy palm, and flicked on the light. Whoa, I was still in golden state? I was still in my hometown, Glade? Finally noticing the vibrating phone on my bedside table, I pressed the button to answer my going away present. The iPhone nearly slipped out of my sweat-slicked palm. I croaked, “Hello?” “Babe?” My boyfriend shouted. “Damien?” My head was still foggy from that nightmare about Louisiana. I glanced at the clock. “Good God, why are you awake at 3 o’ clock in the morning?” “Are you at a party?” I didn’t bother to hide the annoyance in my voice. Damien is a senior and goes to a party every weekend without a doubt. It never gets old to him, and we never get to go out because my curfew is before the party even starts. “Yep,” My boyfriend slurred. “Why aren’t you here? You should be here! Why aren’t you here?” I got out of bed, slipping my feet into my fuzzy slippers. “You know that I have a curfew, and you know I am leaving for Parva in two hours.” “What the hell is Parva?” Damien hiccupped. “It’s a town in Louisiana, Damien. I am staying there until summer – just five short months. You and Rose threw me a going away party yesterday.” I spoke softly, silently padding to the kitchen to get coffee brewing. I would be having to get up in thirty minutes, anyway, to catch my flight. “You’re leaving me?” Damien shouted angrily, slurring worse than before. “How dare you, you’re just a stupid freshman! You can’t leave me!” “I’m a sophomore.” I rolled my eyes, holding the phone to my shoulder with my cheek. “How drunk are you?” “You know what,” Damien said, “That is none of your business.” I didn’t respond. “I cannot believe you are freaking leaving me! I’m supposed to just chill by myself for the rest of senior year? Is that what I am supposed to do?! Answer me!” A shiver ran through my spine and I grabbed a coffee mug from the cabinet. “No,” I mumbled. “Because this relationship is over.” “You are breaking up with me?” Damien seemed shellshock. “Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking. “Have fun at your party.” And on that note, I hung up on him. I threw my brand new iPhone on the granite countertop, and took a shaky breath. Wow. I cannot believe I just did that. I was just adding Splenda and milk to my coffee when my mother, Deana Bosworth, stumbled in. Her hair all over the place. It’s dyed but it looks exactly like mine because I have naturally dark roots. “Good morning sweetheart.” “’Morning,” I responded, bringing the coffee mug to my lips and inhaling deeply. Mmm. That’s a heavenly smell right there. “Ready for Parva?” I smirked. “As ready as I’ll ever be.” Mom snatched the coffee pot from me and smirked back. “That’s the spirit.” I popped in some toast. As I waited for it to come back up, I asked my mom, “How come I haven’t seen my cousins in so long anyway?”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mssboy2000 — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 09:28:43 -0600

Actually there is another thread for this in a way. http://silverlifegroup.com http://silverlifegroup.com/Productview.aspx?id=1 http://silverlifegroup.com/Productview.aspx?id=3 http://silverlifegroup.com/Productview.aspx?id=11 http://silverlifegroup.com/links.aspx

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Cool Author — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 16:02:06 -0600

one FBI Agent Dale Rodden sat in his car, dunking a straw into his cup of coffee and stirring. His black car was sitting idle in front of the coffee shop from which Dale had bought his coffee. A sudden explosion startled him and he dropped his coffee, and it sloshed all over him, wettening his pants. “Aw, man.” He muttered as he pulled out his handgun and loaded it. “It looks like I wet...never mind. What the heck's going on out there?” He got out of his car and noticed a crowd gathering around a car that had become a ball of flame. He pulled out a cell phone with his free hand and punched in a few numbers. “Yeah, Collins, we got a car that's been...whatever. It's just flames now. Get on over here.” He said, speaking to another FBI agent. He made his way over to where the destroyed car was, and wielded his gun. “All right, everyone away.” The crowd reluctantly moved back. “Did any of you see what happened?” Dale asked them, holding the gun pointing to the sky. The crowd shook their heads. Dale was about to say that they were all going to be held for questioning, but he heard the sound of helicopter propellers in the sky. “What the heck?” He murmered as he glanced up at the sky, seeing a war helicopter up and armed. Almost the last thing he saw was a man at the side of the helicopter loading a rocket launcher. “You've got to be kidding.” Dale muttered under his breath as he fired into the sky at the helicopter. The explosion of a gun told him that the rocket had been fired. The absolute last thing that he saw was the crowd gasping and he hoped that most of them had gotten away before the explosion, which killed him and whoever was close enough. Charles Backlund was the leader of the WDP Organization, which stood for World Domination Program. He was a bald, heavier set man, and he, when holding a gun, had the most pleasure when he was pointing it at someone. Particularly their head. Right now he sat in his office, which was, at the moment, a small shack in the middle of the suburbs of New York City, a shack that was so horribly built and cracking to pieces. The small fan at the ceiling of the roof turned and creaked, but provided no source of cooling or comfort. Especially in the heat of this summer. Backlund's face was covered in sweat and grime that had festered over the liquid in the past two hours that he had been sitting at his shabby desk without wiping the sweat from his brow. When he got up, finally, his legs refused to work and so he groaned and sat back down, massaging them and making them waken to heed his needs. When they finally sunk into submission, he got up and reached for the door. When he opened it, the thing flew off its hinges and smashed into the cracked plaster wall, creating a huge hole, and causing plaster shards to spill and decorate the floor. “Come on, dang it.” Muttered Backlund, walking out through the doorless exit. He walked into another room, one that was in the same state as the one that he had just come from, and walked into another WDP agent, all dressed in a black suit, and, Backlund noticed, had a handgun in his suit. This is only the beginning.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fuzz — Sat, 07 Jan 2012 20:26:22 -0600

Guys, try to remember to critique someone else before you post your own excerpt. There are a bunch on the previous page that haven't been looked at yet.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bluebeanie41496 — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 10:11:45 -0600

@ Cool Author: 1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I would definitely be interested in reading on. In my opinion, the only major thing you could fix in this piece is that you seem to do a lot of telling vs. showing. You do well with voice; I get a definite sense of character from both Dale and Backlund. By simply changing around some words, it could be a little sharper and more crisp. You could try using more action verbs, because passive voice tends to be sloppier and less gripping (although your first use of passive voice, "his black car was sitting idle," reinforces the idea of just sitting and doing nothing). It also didn't make sense to me when Dale muttered to himself. I know people talk to themselves, but he doesn't seem natural. I don't know anybody who would tell themselves "nevermind" in the way he does. Generally, he doesn't seem to speak like an FBI agent, either. Although talking to another FBI agent, he doesn't seem like he is. Backlund made more sense. He seemed a little bit more natural, and your descriptions were less awkward. I especially liked your few sentences here- "The small fan at the ceiling of the roof turned and creaked, but provided no source of cooling or comfort. Especially in the heat of this summer." It conjures up an image, and a genuine one at that. However, your descriptions started to make less sense to me after he wasn't able to stand. Some of your descriptions confused me (legs don't sink into submission- people do). Too many words and not enough structure. Really, I think you just need to edit with grammar in mind. A little polishing and this will be much more crisp. PS, I like the name "World Domination Organization." It made me laugh. 2. Genre and age group: mystery, probably, and judging by tone, I would guess this was intended for adults. However, without extensive revision, the voice and writing don't match that. 3. Shelve it or buy it: In this condition, I would probably shelve it. I think it needs a lot more revision and the grammar isn't quite clear in this piece. Unless something really exciting happened in the next page, I would put this down. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): Not to be mean (although by this point, you probably think I am anyway :/) but I give this a C-/D+. I realize I tend to be hard on other people's writing, but this simply isn't gripping enough to deserve a much better score. Sorry!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bluebeanie41496 — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 10:17:21 -0600

“Contaminated!” I spat. Coughing up the fetid water, I struggled to remove the lingering taste of decay from my throat. Aposto watched me, anxiety evident on his face, as I hacked up saliva and cleared my throat and mouth of the disgusting liquid. Leaning up to a squat, I looked up at my two colleagues. “This spring is no good.” “It’s not?” Bistra’s hopeful expression drooped. “Are you sure?” “Never mind the taste, I couldn’t mistake the stench alone.” Aposto sighed. He crouched next to Bistra and rocked back onto his heels. “We ought to head back then, shouldn’t we…” “There’s no way to purify any of it,” I groaned, shaking my head at the clear water by my feet. This had to have been the twentieth spring we had checked, and I was in no mood to test more water. The aftertaste from the last water source had remained in my mouth nearly a day, and judging by the flavor of this water, I would remember its condition for quite a while. “It’s useless.” Bistra grunted. “I don’t want to hear you complaining.” “You’re not the one who tastes the water,” I countered, and Aposto struggled to his feet. He grabbed his bag from the muddy ground and slung it over his shoulder easily. Flecks of mud landed on Bistra and I. “What are you doing?” “We’re heading home.” “Thank the Gods.” I stood and offered a hand to Bistra. She accepted it and pulled herself to her feet next to me. Both of us turned to Aposto, who was busy sniffing the air. His features scrunched as he caught the scent of something. “Terrors,” he snapped, returning his focus to us. “They’re passing by, but we have to be careful.” He crouched once more. Dragging footsteps began to pound softly nearby, and I yanked Bistra down to the ground with me. A hiss of air barely escaped from my mouth as our bodies landed. Bistra grunted, and I reached out to clamp a hand over her mouth. Our last encounter with the Terrors had happened because Bistra couldn’t stay quiet for long. Her breath was hot on my nearly numb fingers, but I didn’t draw my hand back. She was not going to cause trouble again. As each minute crept by, the incessant scraping of bare feet against shale began to fade. The shuffling of feet stopped as suddenly as it had begun. I tensed. Where were they? There was no sound to indicate their position. Hoping for a glimpse of their pack, I craned and rocked on my side. Nothing. A loud shriek ripped through the silence. Bistra flinched, but Aposto and I tried to slow our breathing and prepare ourselves. Leaning as close to Bistra as I could manage without making much noise, I whispered, “Get up. Pull your weapons.” Readying his knife, Aposto crawled onto his knees and transitioned into a squat. I stood next and raised my fists as Bistra copied Aposto’s motions. Although my magic was useful for testing water sources, I had always wished I could have been as powerful as some of the elves were. No matter my basic training in hand-to-hand combat, I wasn’t even well suited for a fight with a Terror; I had no armor and no weapons with me. If I stayed close to Aposto, I would be fine. Bistra held one of her knives out to me. “Do you want one of-” I threw my hand to her mouth in an attempt to quiet her, but the eerie silence vanished as the creatures began to keen. Looking for the source of Bistra’s voice, they thundered down through the ravine. A cry burst from my throat, and my leg muscles tightened as the raw fear of the Terrors consumed all thoughts of trying to protect myself. The hilt of Bistra’s knife pressed into my hand, but it slid from my sweaty grip before I could remember my combat training. The creatures charged into the clearing without hesitation. There weren’t many, but they were larger than I had ever seen. Aposto immediately incapacitated two Terrors, and Bistra threw herself into a body. I froze on quivering legs as the thick stench of rot filled my nose until I could barely breathe. I could sense the Terrors approaching, but I couldn’t fight. I had to run. Claws pierced my forearm, jolting me into consciousness. The creature was so decayed that it didn’t even look like a man or a woman, only a creature determined to consume my carcass. I swung hard and fast, fists connecting with its nose with no hesitation. The pain in my knuckles was fleeting as Aposto’s many training sessions took over. “Kalina!” Aposto’s voice was somewhere distant. “Behind you!” I turned once more. A female Terror advanced at me with outstretched arms. I held my defensive stance, aching hands still curled. When she came within arm’s reach, I swung my foot out into her legs. Tipping backward, she took me with her to the ground in a tangle of bodies. Her head crashed onto a rock and the ravenous expression on her face froze. I leaned away, but hesitated at the sight of her. Her face was mangled and white, but I could see that once, she had been human. Who had this been? Something sharp jabbed into my shoulder, and I shrieked. A thick, slobbery liquid oozed onto my tunic as the thing removed its teeth from my muscle. I dropped onto the female Terror’s body and rolled over onto my throbbing back. The first Terror loomed over me, teeth stained red with my blood. Horror constricted my throat, and I barely had time to glance at my bleeding shoulder before it lowered to attack once more. I wailed and threw my fist to its face. It recoiled and stumbled into Aposto, who jabbed his knife into the Terror’s neck. It screamed and tried to jerk away from him, but the steel was deeply embedded. The Terror twitched for a few moments, but finally fell to the ground and did not move. “Are you alright?” Aposto offered me a hand, which I accepted gladly. “It looked like he nearly bit you.” The pain surging from my shoulder agreed, but I tensed. If I was bitten, there was nothing I could do. My grandmother had turned within days of her infection, and once she became a Terror, she no longer resembled the grandmother I knew. She had been a monster. If I worried Aposto and Bistra with my wound, they wouldn’t be able to focus. “I’m fine.” “Are you sure?” Shooting him an exasperated glare, I repeated my words. He shook his head, but he was already preoccupied with other things. The scent of rotting meat and blood would attract more Terrors, and we couldn’t be around when they discovered their slain brethren. “We need to move,” he murmured, and Bistra appeared next to him. She was coated in specks of blood, but she seemed to be unharmed. She gave me a slight smile. I had been worried about protecting her, but her training was seemingly more instinctual than mine. “Kalina looks exhausted. We should go home,” she murmured to Aposto, and relief dulled the pain radiating from my shoulder. I needed to go home and inspect my wound before my grandfather discovered it. Aposto nodded, giving us his silent agreement, and jogged out into the ravine. Bistra followed, but I hung back for a moment. As I pulled back the fabric of my tunic, I took a quick glance at my shoulder. A semi-circle of puncture marks dripped with blood, and the wound had already begun to swell. I bit my lip and cursed the hot tears rushing to my eyes. I was contaminated, and there was nothing I could do. Oy vey. This needs a ton of revision. One question, though- Is anything confusing or too bland? (My characters tend to be emotionless. Ick.)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 12:09:02 -0600

@fuzz It's obvious you know what you're doing.The prose is assured, the pacing of the story is steady, and the setting up of what is to follow is expertly handled. I have no doubt that if your interest in the story doesn't flag and/or your conception of the story has legs you'll sustain the good writing to the very end. My only reservation is the wisdom of creating an alternate world/universe wholesale. I know I could never do that, and even when the most accomplished of accomplished writers do it and do it successfully, I'm not as convinced of their realities as I am of the writer's representation of realities based on actual places. But that's just me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:17:48 -0600

Title: Ex and Why We all sit in a circle looking at each other. We are women that have the same affliction. My butt feels like it wants to fall asleep sitting on the hard chair, and I move around a lot to keep the pins and needles feeling at bay. Jenny stands in front of her chair. She is one of the young ones that probably just learned why she hadn’t had her period. I look at her and picture a normal girl whose whole world went topsy-turvy at a few words from a doctor in an examination room. “I don’t know what I should feel,” she says to all of us. We’ve all been there. We’ve all had these feelings of confusion. “I don’t know if I should tell my boyfriend or if I should just keep going like nothing’s wrong.” There are two views of thought on this subject in the group. I’m in the group that tells her to tell him. It’s the right thing to do. If he dumps her, then he’s a jerk, and she’ll be better off with somebody else. If he stays with her, then she better hold onto him because he’s a good guy, and they deserve to be held on to. Others tell her to keep it secret because it doesn’t matter in the long run. She’s a girl, and the fact that she has androgen insensitivity doesn’t change the fact that she’s a girl. Telling him would just bring her syndrome to the forefront. “Isn’t that the point?” Mary says. “It’s that difference that you have to accept, and pretending that it isn’t there isn’t the right way. Embrace it, and the things that come with it.” “Tell him or don’t tell him,” Jean says. “He’s going to dump her either way. She’s what: sixteen, seventeen?” I look at Jenny, and I can see her eyes start to get all doe-eyed and watery. Another harsh word and she won’t be able to keep those tears at bay. I stand up and scowl at Jean. Jenny takes my hand as I lead her to the back of the room. “Don’t listen to that,” I tell her. “She’s right though, isn’t she?” I sigh deeply. “You’re young still. You’ve had a lot thrown at you so soon, but yes, and it’s not because of this.” “Why?” “It’s just the way things are.” “Is there anything good about this?” “Oh, there’s a lot that’s good,” I tell her. I brush a strand of hair out of her face. “You’ll never grow hair under your arms, and you’ll never have to shave down here to look sexy. You’ll have a great set of tits when you are done growing.” I look at her, and she already does have a great set. “You won’t stink, and will save a lot on deodorant, and you’ll never have to buy tampax or tampons because you’ll never have a period.” These were the things I was told when I started coming and didn’t know heads or tails of any of it. “I can’t ever have a baby,” she started crying. I hug her. This is the real problem. It’s not that she’s worried about her boyfriend. No, this one spent most of her childhood thinking about the babies she would have when she got older. In an instant that’s ripped away from her. I understand it. I sympathize with it. I’ve gone through the same thing, only I suffered after I realized the implications of not having reproductive organs. I never thought much about children as a girl. “That’s the bad thing about it,” I tell her. “But, you get over it. You do.” I lied, but I hope it comforted her. After she stopped sobbing, we went back to the circle. Jenny didn’t talk the rest of the meeting. I rarely ever talked. I came to offer support to those that needed it. This wasn’t the group I needed. I met those women next week for their monthly meeting. --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

skymessenger — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 13:28:39 -0600

*note: VERY rough first draft* Prologue "Hurry Sora! We have to keep running!" I tried to match my sister's pace but it was nearly impossible. Especially with the little energy I had left. Rima was the best runner in the city. She could have easily gotten away but cares too much for me. If I'm not safe, then she 's not going anywhere. My foot slipped, landing me on the pavement. I tried to breathe normally again but I kept coughing. My lungs felt like exploding, which would've been a better death than what we were up against. "Sora, get up!" Rima yelled from a few feet away. "I can't!" I groaned, my legs feeling like weights. Rima sighed and dashed over. She grabbed my hand, yanked me up and went back to running, not letting me go. I looked up at the sky, watching thick black smoke drift into the eerie orange sky. so many buildings had caught fire, including our home. So many lives had been lost, everyone we knew was probably dead. All because of 'them'. I turned around, seeing the dark silhoutte of a dragon appear. It spotted us and gave a loud roar, an energy ball of some sort forming in its mouth. "Sis watch out!" I tried to warn her. But the dragon released its attack right behind me and Rima. Everything happened in slow motion. There was a huge explosion, knocking me off my feet. my hand slipped away from my sisters. I was swept some distance away, eventually tumbling on the rough ground. I finally stopped, crashing into a pile of fallen debris. Pain ringed through my arms and legs, which was covered in bruises and cuts. I survived the attack....but what about Rima? I dove behind the clumps of rocks and broken bits. At a quick glance, I saw dragons tearing buildings apart down the road. I waited nervously, hoping they would leave. I prayed that Rima escaped somewhere, alive and unharmed. it felt like forever when the sounds of dragons started to fade. Their attacks grew quiet, more distant until they stopped altogether. Carefully, I looked around. Coast was clear. I ran out into the ravaged street. "Rima!" I called. No answer. I called out a few more times as I searched. With each passing momet, I grew more anxious. Where could she be? Then, i heard a cough. I ran to a cluster of bricks and hard materials. Underneath some of the wreckage was Rima. her eyes closed, struggling to open. She looked as though she was beaten up pretty badly. I was puzzled why her skin was so pale and weak. "Rima?" My voice was a panicky squeak. I shook my sisters arm, feeling it bit cool. "Sora..." Rima moaned, opening her eyes halfway. "You look hurt. Are you feeling ok? I think the dragons are gone. let's get out of here." I urged. "Sora...I'll be fine..."Rima coughed. "Don't worry. I'm sure there's a doctor somewhere. Wait here and I'll go find one." I started to rise but Rima grasped my hand, stopping me. "No sis...I'm leaving..." Rima mumbled. It sounded as though it hurt to speak. "Leaving?" I asked. It then hit me. My sister was dying. "No...no please Rima..." I begged. Rima painfully reached her hand into her hacket pocket and pulled out something wrapped in tissue. "You have to live, Sora. Go live your life, be happy...be the strong girl i know you are..." Rima weakly said, putting the package in my hand. "Promise me." I couldn't say anything. My hands were trembling as I felt my sisters get colder. My sister...the girl who taught me to fight bullies, who gave me my first slingshot, who inspired my mechanics hobby....was dying... "I'll always look out for you." The shining light in her eyes started to fade to darkness. "Goodbye...my little sister..." Rima's eyes shut and her muscles went limp, as cold as ice. My mentor, my partner, my bestfriend and sister....was gone. A rumbled echoed across the sky. My gaze shifted to the package Rima left for me and slowly unwrapped it. Goggles. Shiny clear lenses bound by strong leather. I had been meaning to get some and Rima was one step ahead. Rain started to pour down, mixing with the tears that streaked my face. I looked up into the dark sky, feeling more alone than I ever have. "Rima..." I whispered.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:37:50 -0600

@ J_S_C re Ex and Why I envy the sense of ease that your writing conveys. There's no straining, of going to elaborate lengths to create an effect. The story itself requires a little adjustment on my part,as 90 percent of what I read are male-centric, but good writing is good writing. What won me over immediately was the detail about one's derrier going to sleep. I really believe details like that make or break all fiction and that one was a gem. Then there's your extensive use of dialogue instead of exposition to start the story. I rely extensively on exposition when starting a story, thinking that that's the only way to be. You've proven that that's just a dumb bias of mine.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 15:54:42 -0600

Justin Kang must’ve been five when he and his father made replicate footprints across the mud that aproned the public bath. Though one set dwarfed the other, both mimicked a herringbone. “You shouldn’t,” he remembered his father saying. “You shouldn’t walk the way I do. Listen to your mother and walk with your toes pointing forward, okay?” Justin nodded okay but an entire year passed before the advice even registered and this because of a footrace he lost to a friend who advised him, “Stay on your toes; you’ll run faster.” An additional 12 years passed before the advice took hold, but by then Justin was so set in his ways that even if he overcompensated and walked pigeon-toed he would always be husky of build, bearishly postured, and broadly square-jawed. Those aforementioned qualities served him well when lead blocking for his high school football team, but they ruined his chances of ever hooking up with Diane, let alone with Phoebe. Indeed he had no shot at Phoebe, the head cheerleader, who was so wrapped up in her All-American image it would’ve been unthinkable for her to deviate and date the team’s strapping, Asian fullback when there was Vince, the tall, dark, and handsome quarterback with whom she of the flaxen hair, welkin eyes, and ooh-la-la figure dovetailed like a mortise to a tenon. The matter wasn’t as hopeless vis-à-vis Diane, but it was hopeless enough that Justin looked forward to the day when he would cease to pine for her particular charms the adoration of which was why he even bothered to go to church in the first place. Justin got his wish about a year later when he matriculated at Minerva University. Up until then, a week at a summer camp was the longest he had been away from home. Consequently, come Thanksgiving and his return home via a student chartered bus, Justin indulged himself, wolfing down home cooking as if he hadn’t fed for days and watching endless hours of TV while vegetating on the couch. Sure enough, the semesters came and went, and—like everything else—university life became a grinding routine. Fifteen years ago, he would’ve never believed his life would turn out to be so uneventful. Fifteen years ago, having had his weekly wash at the public bath with his father, Justin would wander the neighborhood and mingle with whomever happened to be out and about and do whatever that was viably fun. A favorite pastime was cavorting in the wake of a pickup truck, which was equipped with a fumigator on its cargo bed and which would cautiously negotiate the narrow streets, spewing a plume of white fog. Justin and the dozen or so other kids would be warned that they were inhaling toxic chemicals but to no avail. There was too much fun to be had, and besides the chemicals were toxic to mosquitos, were they not? In any event, the memory was a fond one the likes of which was seldom, if ever, being made nowadays. Indeed, it wasn’t long before Justin found himself a graduating senior without so much as a clue on how to segue his 3.2 GPA and his English BA into a career and a life. By default, he returned home to live with his parents while working at a bookstore for minimum wage when a unique opportunity presented itself: working for Diane’s older brother Curtis who ran a private English instruction institute in Korea. Should Justin sign on, he would be instructing conversational English to Koreans ranging from kindergartners to retirees. Curtis filled in the details over coffee and sweet red bean cakes. “Typically you’ll have 5 classes a day, 2 in the morning and 3 in the evening, with each class running 50 minutes. You’ll be using various textbooks provided by the institute. The base salary is $20,000 per year for the first two years, and then if you decide to re up you can negotiate for better terms. There are no paid vacations, at least not in the first two years, which is to say that they are, like the salary, negotiable after the first two years. Housing will be provided. Medical insurance will be deducted from your salary (about $20 a month), but you can choose to waive it, in which case we advise you to have your own plan in place. You’ll have to pay for the flight going to Korea, but the company will pay for the return flight--even if you’re fired or you quit. Keep in mind: The company sponsors your work visa. Without that work visa you’re an illegal alien. Well, that’s about it. Any questions?” Driving back home with his mother, Justin reproached himself for having failed to ask the one question that mattered and the one question he dared not ask; namely,” How is Diane (and what is she doing these days)?” Instead, he had stupidly welcomed Curtis back home to the States (Curtis was on a 2 week vacation), and he spoke of how grateful he was to Curtis for teaching him how to play football all those years ago, in P.S. 42’s schoolyard, after Sunday school “Have you decided? Are you going to Korea to teach?” his mother asked He nodded yes. “Praise the Lord,” she said. “It was good going back to church after all these years, wasn’t it? When was the last time you met Curtis? Eight, ten years ago? He’s as handsome as ever, isn’t he?”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Steampunk avi8or — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 19:46:57 -0600

My first chapter. It's embarassing! *takes deep breath* PART ONE- CONSCIOUSNESS BOSTON, 1861 Chapter One (The Invention) As the factory bells tolled, Beatrix was perched precariously on a border. It was the border between waking and sleeping. They tolled for the second time and she fell very suddenly onto the side of the border that was being awake. She stretched out her whole self on the bed, wiggled around a bit, and then plopped her feet onto the floor. Beatrix shuffled over to the dresser, the only furnishing in the room besides the bed. She put on her dress with the fluffy skirt, grappled with the corset, and tied her long hair back. Even servant girls had to look presentable. Lastly, she slipped on the ring she had made from a gear in one of her father’s failed inventions. Now Beatrix could face the world. “Good morning!” she said to her father as she descended the narrow staircase. “Hi Bee,” he replied, handing her a chunk of bread. Beatrix had black hair and green eyes, a startling and almost unheard of combination at that time. Her father, John, Professor Bower, had slightly graying brown hair paired with deep green eyes. This was more normal. John wore the acceptable clothing as well, for being seen without a vest to him was comparable to being seen in his underwear. He wore a typical inventor’s vest today. Sepia with black designs embroidered on. Or maybe that was the grease. Beatrix could never tell. “Thanks for the bread. I’ll check on Diane and then be off to the Penner house,” Beatrix said over her shoulder. She didn’t have to articulate it, it was her daily routine. But sometimes people just say things that are obvious, or speech becomes unnecessary and ceases to exist. “Goodbye! I have a surprise for you when you come home!” John said after his daughter. He had wanted a better job for her than working in the mills. Being a ladies’ maid was supposedly better, but they both never envisioned that for Beatrix. But maybe she would soon have a chance to change careers. She was only sixteen, there were opportunities. John heard her have a brief chat with her bedridden sister, about work mostly. Beatrix came back through the dingy room that was considered something of a kitchen and said goodbye to her father. She closed the front door, and her father went back to the laboratory. Out in the street, Beatrix mounted the huge front wheel of her bicycle and put the key she always wore around her neck into the lock. Her father had made the bike for her. It was steam powered, but still had pedals in case of emergency. The engine purred, and soon she was zipping through the streets on her way toward the stately Penner house. “Miss Bower,” the young Penner debutante said “you are seven minutes late.” “I am truly sorry miss,” Beatrix uttered, curtsying to the spoiled teenager. “Really, Beets. You have to try harder.” Marie Penner said, and then looked away from her maid and sighed. Her exasperation turned to stiff anger as she said “No matter. Dress me.” Beatrix immediately helped Marie into her beautiful party dress, deep blue with birds embroidered on. Beatrix had worn a beet-red dress on her first day, so was now known by the whole Penner family and staff as Beets. An annoyed Beets went with Marie and her friends to tea and stood shamefully in the corner with the other aids. After a long day, the tired girl rode home on her bicycle and sat down in the little kitchen. “Oh good you’re home!” her father announced as he came in the room wiping his greasy hands on his vest. His face lit up as he led his daughter into his lab, talking the whole time. When they approached the promised surprise, Beatrix was honestly disappointed. It appeared to be only a metal table with cuffs for wrists and ankles. “The parts dealer said it might have been Doctor Frankenstein’s!” the eager man exclaimed, putting an arm around Beatrix. “So what do you think, Bee?” “Well…” Beatrix replied as she thought of something more to say. “Oh don’t worry! It’s not all of the surprise! I’ve finished an invention, one that could make us rich. President Lincoln requested me to build it,” The inventor elaborated. Beatrix looked a little beyond the table and saw it was connected to a hulking machine that took up almost the whole wall with its height and about six feet in width. It was a huge rectangular cube and a long lever protruded from the middle. The whole apparatus had sort of a leering look to it, but maybe the structure was just unstable. It was late in the day, so shadows shrouded the machine. A pipe to vent steam came out of the engine and clambered up the wall, leading Beatrix’s eye upward. There were gears and wires fixed to the ceiling. On the opposite side of the mechanical wonder from the table, a thick black cable dangled down. There was one last piece, which gave Beatrix the creeps, an electrode also similar to Doctor Frankenstien’s. “Now I see!” Beatrix hid her disappointment “I think Diane should hear about this,” He agreed quickly and completely. So he whisked his younger daughter out of the lab and to Diane’s room. They knocked softly three times. “Come in,” a voice croaked from inside. Beatrix unconsciously tried to breathe the smallest breaths possible. What they saw in the room would have been astounding, but to them it was expected. Diane, Beatrix’s older sister was a small, pallid little person. She choked out words: “I heard you two talking in the hall. Please tell me all about the invention,” After her sister said this Beatrix thought her father would be here all night telling her. Diane’s pasty face lit up at the idea of a story so Beatrix said nothing. He proceeded to explain every cog and every scrap of metal that formed his precious device, even the bolts were the best he could afford. The girls were just about bored to sleep. Their father lightly shook each of them. “I hope my work isn’t that boring to you girls! I’ll get to the point,” he said, clearing his throat “So basically, it’s a Consciousness transfer device. A person lies down on a table and gets strapped in. Then the machine’s operator plugs one of the cables into the hole in the table. Then on the other side of the actual device, a machine has a cable plugged into it, or a person holds the cable in their hands. The operator fires it up, and then the two things connected have switched minds! It will change everything! The President himself had me build this, because as you know, girls, our country is on the brink of civil war. And you also know the North has to win. With my invention, we can have machines that strategize because the minds of soldiers are inside. But their bodies won’t get hurt in battle! The bodies, unConscious because they have the mind of a machine, will be kept safe for soldiers when they come home. So, now I have to make the war machines to be operated by people’s minds. It’s a challenge because the layout has to be similar enough to a human body for the human to operate normally.” “We’re so proud of you, papa!” Diane congratulated. “Thank you Princess!” he said to his older daughter. “By the way, tomorrow the mechanic I hired is going to start work. He and I will plan out and eventually build the mechs to go with the Consciousness switcher. I think you two will like him very much. Well, I guess my own story has tired me out, good-night girls.” John had had a long day working on his invention, so he went to bed. After Diane heard him climb the stairs, she asked Beatrix something. “Do you think I could put myself into a machine?” she wondered. “Are you insane?!” her sister whisper-screamed back. “Not really. I have one in mind; it’s one of Papa’s failed inventions. It will hold my mind until I can get a better body, one that isn’t sick. I’m just another mouth to feed like this. Also I may die in this body and if I die, my Consciousness can’t be transferred.” “We aren’t even sure it works!” Diane ignored this remark. “Papa can make me a mechanical body and I can come back to life. There’s no other time than now, he’s usually up all night working.” Beatrix thought for a long time. She fell asleep thinking it over and Diane had to wake her. She tried not to think of it as killing. Diane’s body would just have the mind of a machine - no mind, and the machine would hold her mind for safekeeping. Diane could be brought into the world again. But she would only be controlling an android. It would never be the same again, for anyone. Androids though, live forever. They don’t die unless they are murdered. This was what she wanted. “I’ll help you.” Beatrix gave in “But we are bringing you back to life.” With the new thought of a new body to give her strength, Diane got up and walked to the lab without much trouble. She was still whip thin and a giving her a new body would definitely be the better thing to do than sitting on their hands and waiting for her to die. Diane lay strapped to the table while telling Beatrix where to find the machine she wanted. With a sigh, Beatrix touched the cable to the machine and plugged the cable into Diane’s platform. The little machine was a cube with many exposed gears and wires. It was about as big as a housecat lying down for a catnap. Beatrix crept up to the transfer device and timidly pulled the lever down. Gears whirred and steam poured out. The electrode zapped and Beatrix’s hair stood on end. Gears turned in the machine that was Diane’s new home, and Diane’s old body convulsed with electricity. When the steam cleared, the body was limp and dead-looking. There was no way to know if her Consciousness had made it to the little mechanical box or not. It may have just killed Diane for good. Beatrix powered the apparatus down. Her shoulders drooped while she unplugged the cables. She took the surprisingly heavy new Diane up to her sister’s room and placed it on the dresser. There, she put the limp, bony form under the thin blankets of Diane’s bed. She closed the creepy glassy eyes so it looked like she died in her sleep. Beatrix took one last look as tears streamed down her face. Upstairs in her room, Beatrix thought about things. She thought about what Diane was maybe feeling now, if she was a killer, and if machines with minds in them were a good idea or not. She would have thought about more things, but sleep crashed over her like a tidal wave. The next day Beatrix woke even earlier than the factory workers. Her father opened the door to her room and light spilled from outside into her eyes. She was irritable but still she sat up in bed. “Bee…” John said, his cheeks glistening with tears “It’s your sister,” Beatrix started sniffling because her sister was gone. Then tears came when she remembered she had basically killed her. And then loud, blubbering sobs came when she saw Diane the cube of gears right there on her dresser. “Oh little Honeybee. Don’t cry.” He soothed her as he walked to her bed. But he was crying as well, and when he wrapped his arms around her, they both wept together. People, when they cry for some time, get to a point where their tears are all used up for the time being. When this happens, the ones with any sense will assess the situation and decide what to do next. The ones without any sense will go on making sad wailing noises until their tear storage units refill themselves. Beatrix and her father were both very sensible people. “Do the Penners give you personal days?” John asked, cleaning dried tears off his face with a handkerchief. “Not even one a year,” Beatrix answered solemnly. “Well I will give you one today. If they fire you, they aren’t the kind of people I want you to work for. Plus I will make us so rich it won’t even matter. Have fun, but remember, the mechanic is coming here in a couple hours and I want you to meet him.” He said, holding out his handkerchief. Beatrix accepted the little cloth and thanked her generous father. He winked, smiled and then he left her room. Beatrix now had a whole day of leisure sprawled out in front of her. She wiggled her toes under the blanket with excitement. Beatrix changed out of her frilly nightgown and into a knee-length red dress. It was the exact same dress that had earned her the title of Beets in the Penner house. She tied on her favorite corset, a black one with white lacing. Her gear ring was still on and her key was still around her neck. All but one thing was normal. “I’m going for a ride!” Beets called to her father after she came downstairs. “Remember the mechanic’s coming!” he called after her. Beatrix shut the door and climbed onto her bike. When she unlocked the bike it purred like it knew what its rider was thinking of doing. The rider sat on the bicycle for a moment, debating. She decided it was time to face her fears and do the thing she was planning. Really, she told herself, she was just going to get breakfast. Since Beatrix was so used to speeding through the streets, she decided to take it easy today and obey traffic laws for once. It’s not that she was an aggressive driver. No, she was just so afraid of being fired that she could not be a second late. It was a sunny day, and now Beatrix had the time to actually examine all the vehicles on the road, instead of just blindly dodging them. The slowest were the carriages. Some were old fashioned horse-and-carriage deals, but many were more modern. Some had a mechanical horse pulling them, and some were horseless, steam powered carriages. All were ornate, and all had beautiful and handsome people within. Also common were open-air walking machines. These had four legs, sometimes quite tall, and they could walk through all terrain. The walkers required extreme balance and concentration to pilot, so they couldn’t usually reach high speeds. Some had steam-powered or man-powered bicycles with a huge front wheel like Beatrix’s own. Rarest and fastest of all were imported European steam cycles. They were sleek, aerodynamic and had two wheels of equal size. The riders rode lying down with their knees bent and their heads up. They wore goggles and sometimes gas masks to look menacing or to keep exhaust from other cycles out of their lungs. After a nice relaxing ride, Beatrix finally arrived at the bakery. She bought a Danish with a fruit filling. It smelled so sweet she wanted to eat the flaky pastry then and there. She felt the hot eyes of Boston’s best and brightest boring into her. Beatrix still managed to clear the minefield of stares and get out of the bakery. She took the pastry out of the bag, examining it, almost not believing it was hers. Beatrix put her meal back in its bag and licked fruity goo off her fingers. There was still one more thing to do today, so Beatrix mounted her bike again.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

tinkerbinker — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 22:13:22 -0600

I just posted a critique on the previous page, a huge one, and will do another on this page. Since that critique will likely take up a lot of space I'm not going to post my excerpt on this page and will instead say to check my profiles novel excerpt. It's some of the first chapter, and is only 950 words according to Microsoft Word Works. There's still no information given in the summary beyond a line that is in the excerpt itself.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

kaylainwonderland — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 18:38:44 -0600

My first chapter of Shattered and Stolen: “I want to break up with you, I’ll always love you though,” As that got no response he decided another tactic whining, “It’s not you, it’s me. Well, maybe not so much me, as . . . um . . . you,” He finished that in a pathetic whisper. Katherine sat across from the bastard at the café table covered in pink construction paper hearts. Happy, romantic music filled the air and she nibbled at her red velvet cupcake without enthusiasm. She stared across from her at the slimeball she thought had actually cared about her. Meanwhile he went on with his explanation of why they had to break up today, on February, 13th, “You see I really like you Katherine. It’s true, but I just need some space and don’t want a commitment now. Plus I want to explore all the possibilities.” “You mean you want a chance to get in Rachel’s pants? Seriously, a day before Valentine’s day you decided you needed space? Please,” Katherine scuffed at him. He gave her wide innocent, insincere eyes and said, “I respect you too much to cheat on you.” Katherine glared and said in a venomous voice, “Are you joking? Are you saying that unless you break up with me you’re gonna cheat?” He looked hurt and said, “No, that’s not what I’m saying! I just want to see how I feel about her and then if it doesn’t work out we can always get back together!” She looked at her cupcake thoughtfully and then smashed it into his wormy face. Katherine then got up and cheerfully said, “I don’t think so.” As she walked out someone started clapping. Turning back around, she saw a woman with bright crimson hair and in a waitress costume. Now there was no actual proof that it was a costume, but Katherine very much doubted any real waitress would wear something so skimpy. The low cut pale blue mini dress with a white collar and white apron left very little to the imagination. She wore white thigh highs and very unpractical six inch stilettos. The tall woman smiled and said in a low voice, “I’m thoroughly impressed. In fact if you want reimbursed for the cupcake I’d be more than happy to help. Though it was well worth the two fifty if you ask me.” Everything was surprisingly quiet. Normally Steve would be trying to heal his ego by flailing about insults to everyone. Looking around she noticed everyone was still and silent. As if frozen. She asked the slutty waitress, “Um, I appreciate the compliment, but why is everyone frozen? Did you do it?” The waitress giggle and said in a suddenly high pitched voice, “Why of course silly! Friday the thirteenth doesn’t come around every week you know! I rarely waste an opportunity to use magic in the mortal realm. Now come here, we really must be off.” Katherine stepped back, unable to process all that she said. Then in a voice leaking with fear she said, “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Then she turned around to run. But the door was locked. Frantically she tried to open it, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Suddenly the waitress grabbed onto Katherine’s curly hair and snapped her head back. Then she slammed it forward and smashes Katherine’s head into the glass door. There was a small cracking noise and Katherine opened her eyes to see a spider web pattern form on the glass. Then red rain down into the new cracks. For a moment Katherine was confused, and then she realized what the matter was. Turning around she saw the bitch calmly standing there, smiling. “What the hell was that for! Now I’m bleeding, you know this is how concussions happen!” The waitress scowled, “Stop screaming. I told you that we needed to go. You didn’t listen, now will you listen? Oh and stop calling me waitress. While I would prefer to be called master, Lena would do. Waitress would not.” “I didn’t call you waitress…” “Yes you did, you simply didn’t say it aloud. I wanted to blend in though, and I love the chance to dress up!” She said with a clap. Katherine ran to Steve and started shaking him, yelling at him to wake up. Lena grabbed her from behind and said in a motherly voice, “Shush now dear, it won’t do any good. Come on and let’s go.” “No! Get away you bitch!” Lena slapped her and she fell to the ground. Then Lena shook her finger and said, “Naughty, naughty. Didn’t anyone tell you to listen to your elders?” Katherine glared up at her and said, “Why do you want me? I’m just a normal fourteen year old girl. There’s nothing worth all this trouble to get me for.” Lena tsked her, “You shouldn’t underestimate your value. You know people with low esteem are terribly unattractive.” Katherine started crying. She was curled up on the floor of the café, wishing this psychopath would leave her alone. Lena glared, “You know I make it a practice to not call people names. Now stop moaning and get up, it’s time to leave this realm.” Katherine shook her head and cried out, “Just let me be!” Katherine came to and could smell cinnamon, dust and sweat. Things brushed against her, grabbing at her hair, arms and feet, but they quickly let go as if weak. She was being carried by Lena, she knew it. She tried to open her eyes, but something seemed to be weighing them down, stopping her from seeing. The air started to feel hot and their fall slowed until they hovered in the air. The air itself got denser, almost like water and Katherine struggled to breathe. Now the air is like jell-o and panic sets in. Then the smell recedes to become that of pine trees, fresh air and something sickly sweet like cotton candy, it was the feeling of regret and betrayal if emotions had smells. The ground becomes solid and the air becomes normal and breathable again. Katherine can finally open her eyes now. Lena grimaces, “I truly hate that, going through a guardian’s tunnel is so very unpleasant. You should thank me for knocking you out and keeping your eyes shut. That place would have seared your eyes out and made your mind mad if you saw what we just traveled through.” Katherine looks around at the new place. A forest of pine trees with needles a florescent purple that made it all glow. Panicked she started to run from Lena, knowing that woman was evil. Evil and magic, two things Katherine hadn’t ever really believed in, until now. Sadly the fourteen year old was no match for the monster after her. Lena grabs her and slaps her across the face. Hard. Then she says, “Listen here. You are in the Otherworld. There is no going back to your mortal realm on your own. So you better start begging for my mercy, before I decide to demand it.” Katherine sulked and slowly followed Lena, who annoyed at the silence starts talking, “In case you were wondering about, oh I don’t know, the Otherworld allow me to explain in such simple terms even you won’t have any questions. I am a what you little mortals consider a fairy. But do be careful not to call everyone fairies, most are other species. But we’re all fey. That is sort of like feline. Cheetahs, lions, and so on are all felines, but you wouldn’t call a cheetah a bobcat. Make sense?” Katherine looks up, “Why are you doing this? I want to go home. I want to go back and yell at that bastard Steve some more, then tell my friends about it and watch some chick flicks and eat Ben and Jerry’s!” “Because, well . . . Look I have a reason, but I have no reason to tell you my reasoning,” Lena huffed, then pausing she remarks, “I thought you humans frowned on cannibalism?” Katherine exploded, “Of course we do!” “Well I doubt that Jerry and Ben would agree,” Lena mused. Katherine sulked while Lena pondered humans’ silly ways. Drawn back into the silence they leave it that way and finally arrive at a huge oak tree that’s leaves were gold. Lena looked up at the tree and said in a soft coo, “Knock knock! Guess who?” The oak seemed to sigh in misery. Then it shuddered and the trunk split open to show a set of golden stairs leading down. Lena smiled, “In you go, stay there ‘til I have time to explain your purpose. Ha, not like you’re going anywhere this is the last oak in the Otherworld and I keep the entrance carefully guarded.” Then Lena shoved her down and as Katherine stumbled down the stairs she finally understood why people shouldn’t push others down stairs. The sharp pointy edges dug into her and hurt nearly as bad as being shoved into that glass door. Her vision faded and her last thought was on how she really needed to stop going unconscious.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 21:27:30 -0600

My first 1000 words, my actual chapter is nearly 4,000 words though :/ And when it's not late, I'll posted about someone elses :) Early Morning Interviews- Lilli sat alone in the green room of the TV studio, waiting to go back on air after the bands performance on the daily talk show more than an hour before. She still wore her lilac flimsy dress with black trim and dabbed at her nose with a tissue, as a cold had been going around the band. Her younger brother had gone with the rest of the band for some fresh air, before he returned to his sister for their brief interview. Whilst the rest of the band went to look round the city whilst. Lilli's mobile flashed blue and vibrated indicating her mum was phoning her. She glanced at the time displayed of 9am then let it go to a missed call knowing she’d be called through at any moment to the make-up and wardrobe department so she could change before the interview. Lilli sat whilst the hairstylist combed at her hair in the wardrobe department. Staring at her nervous reflection, Lilli continued to worry about the live interviews, she thought she’d say something she wasn't meant too. "Joining us now are Lilli and Elm Morgan" the short grey haired host said as The Munsters theme tune played and he gestured to Lilli and her brother, they made their way over to sit in the sofa across from him. "Morning" she said with a laugh gesturing around her at the music as her brother tried to smother a heavy cough. The host was surpised at how softly spoken and delicate Lilli's voice was compared to her singing voice. Her dark elbow length hair was now neatly tied back into a ponytail that trailed down her back over a fitted black t-shirt that depicted Lily and Herman Munster with The Munsters written in lilac above them. Lilli crossed her black jeaned legs once she'd sat down. Her brother who more flopped onto the sofa and casually smiled at the camera wore black jeans along with a dark grey shirt over a lilac t-shirt but kept his equally as long hair down. “Now, Lilli you left The Wires just over 2 years ago” the host began as Lilli nodded that he was correct. “Have things calmed down now?” he asked. “Yeah things went a little crazy as people will know” Lilli laughed “obviously it wasn't the best way to leave a band but everything is more settled now, and I have my 'own' band now” she added, gesturing quotation marks at the use of the word own. "So do have any feelings about The Wires now?" he asked returning to the infamous subject whilst glancing at his sheet of questions. "Well, you know I became their singer really because of my brother” Lilli tapped her brothers on the knee “of course at the time I was hurt by what was going on in the band to me, and also afterwards by the stuff Adam said... but then I look back now and I don't really feel anything" she explained to the host, and then took another sip of water. "Really your brother?" the host questioned further. "Yeah, I was friends with Adam since we were about 11 or 12” Lilli nodded in agreement with her little brother “then when we were about 19” he made a so/so gesture with her left hand “he started the band and they wanted a singer" he added as Lilli raised an eyebrow and pointed to herself. "Big sister came to the rescue?" the host offered with a laugh. "Something like that" Lilli shrugged "they were never looking for a guitar player at the time" Lilli smiled “it wasn’t until later with my band that Elm was obviously the perfect choice” Lilli gave her brother a coy smile. “Am I right in thinking you have no management?” the host asked. “Yes you are, we don’t have a manager. Of course we have a label but decisions are made between us and then press releases and things like, well this" Lilli gestured around her with her hands "are sorted by Rafael our PR and general partner in crime” she explained with smile. “What can people expect from you, what kind of sound?” the host raised an eyebrow, posing the question for those who had not seen the performance earlier on the show. “You’re very different from your previous band” he added. “Actually now The Wires as a band has changed so much with having a new singer and everything. But we” Lilli gestured with her hands “Lilli and The Munsters are a mix of gothic rock and dramatic stage music, with a splash of 50's rock 'n' roll” Lilli narrowed her eyes as she thought. “We wanted to create, something very theatrical” her brother interrupted her “we really like old horror films... Lils is a huge fan of Ed Wood and that kind of style...” Elm was interrupted by Lilli as he took a breath. “And to have that kind of fun and innocent feel to the music but also make it very theatrical like in those old films” Lilli explained “but definitely on the rock side of things” she gestured to the side with her hands as the host interrupted her. “Metal?” he offfered. “No not really” Lilli firmly disagreed whilst her brother sip at his water. “What kind of music are you a fan of?” the host questioned them. “Lots of different things really” Lilli explained after tapping at her chin for a few moments “Anything theatrical, rock, goth, metal” Lilli shrugged “pop, indie err... 80's eletro and EBM, bit of classical, like film scores...” she took a breath “I don't like RnB unlike Sarah, and I don't like country and blues... but everything else I'll listen too, it really depends on my mood” she added nodding to herself. “I like all kinds of metal and rock...” he gestured to agree with his sister “but yeah depends my mood” her brother said plainly but with a smile.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:13:13 -0600

I know this is a little unorthodox but I edited the first chapter. Here it is complete(so sorry it's long and more than a 1000 words), I'm unsure if I should go back to my original idea, and have my second chapter as my first chapter and just ditch my current first chapter. So here are the first 2 chapters, so you can see what works best. Early Morning Interviews Lilli sat alone in the green room of the TV studio, waiting to go back on air after the bands performance on the daily talk show more than an hour before. She still wore her lilac flimsy dress with black trim and dabbed at her nose with a tissue, as a cold had been going around the band. Her younger brother had gone with the rest of the band for some fresh air, before he returned to his sister for their brief interview. Whilst the rest of the band went to look round the city whilst. Lilli's mobile flashed blue and vibrated indicating her mum was phoning her. She glanced at the time displayed of 9am then let it go to a missed call knowing she’d be called through at any moment to the make-up and wardrobe department so she could change before the interview. Lilli sat whilst the hairstylist combed at her hair in the wardrobe department. Staring at her nervous reflection, Lilli continued to worry about the live interviews, she thought she’d say something she wasn't meant too. "Joining us now are Lilli and Elm Morgan" the short grey haired host said as The Munsters theme tune played and he gestured to Lilli and her brother, they made their way over to sit in the sofa across from him. "Morning" she said with a laugh gesturing around her at the music as her brother tried to smother a heavy cough. The host was surpised at how softly spoken and delicate Lilli's voice was compared to her singing voice. Her dark elbow length hair was now neatly tied back into a ponytail that trailed down her back over a fitted black t-shirt that depicted Lily and Herman Munster with The Munsters written in lilac above them. Lilli crossed her black jeaned legs once she'd sat down. Her brother who more flopped onto the sofa and casually smiled at the camera wore black jeans along with a dark grey shirt over a lilac t-shirt but kept his equally as long hair down. “Now, Lilli you left The Wires just over 2 years ago” the host began as Lilli nodded that he was correct. “Have things calmed down now?” he asked. “Yeah things went a little crazy as people will know” Lilli laughed “obviously it wasn't the best way to leave a band but everything is more settled now, and I have my 'own' band now” she added, gesturing quotation marks at the use of the word own. "So do have any feelings about The Wires now?" he asked returning to the infamous subject whilst glancing at his sheet of questions. "Well, you know I became their singer really because of my brother” Lilli tapped her brothers on the knee “of course at the time I was hurt by what was going on in the band to me, and also afterwards by the stuff Adam said... but then I look back now and I don't really feel anything" she explained to the host, and then took another sip of water. "Really your brother?" the host questioned further. "Yeah, I was friends with Adam since we were about 11 or 12” Lilli nodded in agreement with her little brother “then when we were about 19” he made a so/so gesture with her left hand “he started the band and they wanted a singer" he added as Lilli raised an eyebrow and pointed to herself. "Big sister came to the rescue?" the host offered with a laugh. "Something like that" Lilli shrugged "they were never looking for a guitar player at the time" Lilli smiled “it wasn’t until later with my band that Elm was obviously the perfect choice” Lilli gave her brother a coy smile. “Am I right in thinking you have no management?” the host asked. “Yes you are, we don’t have a manager. Of course we have a label but decisions are made between us and then press releases and things like, well this" Lilli gestured around her with her hands "are sorted by Rafael our PR and general partner in crime” she explained with smile. “What can people expect from you, what kind of sound?” the host raised an eyebrow, posing the question for those who had not seen the performance earlier on the show. “You’re very different from your previous band” he added. “Actually now The Wires as a band has changed so much with having a new singer and everything. But we” Lilli gestured with her hands “Lilli and The Munsters are a mix of gothic rock and dramatic stage music, with a splash of 50's rock 'n' roll” Lilli narrowed her eyes as she thought. “We wanted to create, something very theatrical” her brother interrupted her “we really like old horror films... Lils is a huge fan of Ed Wood and that kind of style...” Elm was interrupted by Lilli as he took a breath. “And to have that kind of fun and innocent feel to the music but also make it very theatrical like in those old films” Lilli explained “but definitely on the rock side of things” she gestured to the side with her hands as the host interrupted her. “Metal?” he offered. “No not really” Lilli firmly disagreed whilst her brother sip at his water. “So we obviously saw you perform earlier, are you on tour now?” the host questioned her straight away. “No, we are soon” she glanced to her brother who nodded in agreement “The tour starts when?” the grey haired man asked. “The tour starts the day after the album is released” her brother confirmed after momentarily getting the dates and events correct in his head “we have already played a few dates already, last night was the last one actually” he coughed “was the last one before the album comes out” he added as Lilli nodded. “The album comes out at the end of next month about 5 weeks, but it can be pre-ordered now on our web shop” Lilli confirmed. “Yes, we have a picture of the album, The Sinister Urge here” the host gestured behind him at a big screen, which displayed the album cover. “That's a pretty risque cover” he added. Lilli studied the photo of herself for a moment, in it she was topless and only wearing lilac and black 50's style knickers with stockings. A surprised expression on her face whilst she was bent over in a classic pin-up pose. Her brother is behind dressed as Count Dracula, in his hand Lilli's dress implying he'd torn it from her and was about to attack whilst flying saucers hovered above them. “Is it?” she asked coyly "I don't think it's that bad..." Lilli added with a smile. “Are you doing anything else, or is it all promotion for the album?” the host questioned Lilli. “We are actually doing a TV show in a couple of days called Battle Of The Bands, that runs for a round 2 weeks” Lilli stirred the interview back to the band activities “it’s where bands come on and we judge them along with...” Lilli was interrupted by her brother who nudged her, making her frown. “We can't say which band, because obviously that's not our job” he quickly told her. “OK, so the other band is a surprise... but basically the idea is to have a battle of the bands contest and the winner gets a recording contract” Lilli explained as she reached for one of the glasses of water on the small table in front of her. “I must say you have quite an interesting name, Elm?” the host turned his attention to the young man. “Yeah and I need to say it's my real name” he sat up, leaning slightly across his sister to talk to the host “a lot of people ask that but I think you have a question about that later so...” he gestured to the host, who nodded. “Yeah we have a little contest for the viewers but we'll come back to that a little later... so where does your name come from?” the host purposely asked. “Well, my mum was pregnant with me when her and my dad, went to see A Nightmare On Elm Street opening night” he began with a smile “anyway around half through, my mum goes into labour” he explained. “Not Freddy?” the host asked. “No... I got Elm for my middle name, all our names have a woodland kind of thing about them” he told the host, gesturing to his sister. "You have an older brother too?" the host questioned them, changing the topic. "Yeah Phil, he's 8 year's older then me" Lilli smiled "and he's a computer programmer" Lilli explained leaning forward a little. “He's not anything like us...” her brother commented. "How old are you, by the way?" the host asked. "How old you think I am?" Lilli spoke with a playful tone and waited for a reply, hearing a 22 shouted from the camera crew "22! I wish" she muttered with a laugh flopping back into the chair, then heard a 25 shouted out” 27, I'm 27, 28 later in the year and Elm is a year younger than me" she confirmed and stroked her brother cheek playfully “little baby face” she cooed making him frown. "So you joined The Wires when you were 20" he smiled as Lilli nodded a little. "Anyway, here's a photo of the band” the host turned behind him to a big screen showing an image of Lilli standing between Elm and Sarah, Dave and Stuart behind them. "We're going to be asking Lilli and Elm some of your questions after the break but now we have a contest" the host explained to the viewers, then gestured to Elm, who sat up from the sofa. “So...” Elm rubbed his hands together as he looked at the camera “what we” he glanced at Lilli “would like to know is, what's my first name?” he asked with a smile before he turned to Lilli. “It's easy” she chuckled “the person with the correct answer, wins a signed copy of our new album once it's out and al siigned poster” she held up the 10x8 card amounted poster, that the other had signed earlier before she turned to the host who gave out the number to call. The make-up team buzzed around Lilli in the break, she'd already done her own make-up before the show, but they insisted she needed more applying. “Welcome back” the host smiled “here we are with Lilli and Elm from Lilli And The Munsters” he gestured to the siblings who waved slightly. “So, a winner to our little contest before the break, has been chosen” he confirmed. There was a crackle of a phone line. “Hello, Petula from Seaford, are you there?” the host asked. “Hello?” a timid elderly voice said. “Petula, my love are you there?” the host repeated himself. “Yes, yes I'm here... oh I do like you...” Petula commented, making Lilli suppress a laugh. “Petula” the host raised his voice slightly “you won the contest...” the grey haired man explained. “Yes...” Petula said again before the line went quiet, whilst Lilli discreetly looked at Elm, knowing that the camera wasn't on them. “Do you like Lilli And The Munsters?” the host asked. “Well, ducky... no” Petula paused “My granddaughter does, but you had to be a certain age to enter, love...” she explained, whilst Elm mouthed an 'aww' to his sister. “Right” the host nodded “is your granddaughter there, Petula?” he asked. “Yes... do you want me to get her?” she asked in a cautious voice. “Yes if you like, what's your granddaughter's name?” the host asked as the line went quiet once again and there was a crackled and clatters of the receiver being moved around. “Hello?” a young girls voice asked. “Hello” the host almost shouted at her “did you get your gran to enter the contest?” he asked, trying to salvage the whole contest, as his two interviewee's had eased back onto the sofa and had possibly started their own conversation. “Yes, yes... do you want the answer?” the girl frantically asked. “Yes, what's your name and how old are you, sweetheart?” the host asked with a smile. “It's Emma and I'm nearly 11...” her voice was soft, as the camera went to Lilli and Elm who were now sat eagerly awaiting the answer “it's Tony...” she added unable to control her excitement as Lilli nodded and he brother clapped. “Congratulations, Emma” the host said as he then gestured to Lilli as she sat posed with a silver marker. “How are you?” Lilli asked the young girl. “OK” Emma mumbled. “You alright Emma?” Tony asked after his sister handed him the poster to sign. “Ye...ssss...” Emma finally replied after a sharp intake of breath was heard down the phone line. “OK, Emma we'll get that sent out to you... do you have a question for Lilli and Elm?” the host asked. “Yes, what's your favourite colour?” Emma timidly asked. “Lilac...” Lilli momentarily thought “black... and sometimes really bright yellow” she added. “I kind of like green but then again I like black...” Tony told the young girl with a laugh. “Is that OK for you Emma?” the host asked hearing a muttering noise that sounded like a 'yes' “you take care then, bye” the host concluded and then line went dead after the camera went to Lilli and her brother waving. "So, a few questions and comments from the home viewers, your fans" the host said holding up some paper to read from “firstly, some comments, Sammy says 'Lilli And The Munsters rocks and he loves Lilli'” Lilli gave a bashful smile “Sandra says 'Just keep doing, what your doing'” the host is interrupted by Tony. “Sandra, buy the new album and we will” Tony joked. “This is for you” the host laughed out to Tony "BecksBear17 says 'the best thing about Lilli And The Munsters is the guitarists bum'” he added and raised an eyebrow to the siblings. “BecksBear17...” Tony leaned forward looking at the camera “I wanted to truly thank you for that comment” he paused with his hands as if to pray “this is for you” Tony added before standing up with his back to the camera and lifting his shirt up over his lilac studded belt to display his jeaned clad bottom. "Very nice bum" Lilli suddenly said “I like to give it a good squeeze” she added playfully as she soft slapped her palm against her brothers bum before he sat down. “Right now to viewers questions...” the host told the now giggling brother and sister. “Yes...” Lilli replied with a smile as she leant back and folded her arms. "Simon in Birmingham, Who's your favourite Actor or Actress? And who would play you in a film?" the host questioned. "An Actor, mmm maybe Johnny Depp.... he’s very attractive if that counts" she paused "I've not really got a favourite Actress; I do really like Sofia Coppola as a Director though" Lilli paused and thought for a second “I don't know who'd play me in a film” she commented. "Julia Stiles..." her brother suggested. "Oh that's her who was in Dexter isn't it" Lilli turned to her brother "I don't think I look like her though..." she said as her brother mouthed 'you do' before his sister turned back to the host "I'm not sure" Lilli concluded. “Can I be played by Brandon Lee... I've been told I look like him a bit...” Tony explained to be interrupted by Lilli. “Brandon Lee's dead” Lilli said with a frown. “Yeah but it's just a theoretical question, Lils...” he bickered back with a hint a seriousness to his voice. “Yeah but you can't have Brandon Lee... pick someone else...” Lilli quibbled back at him. “OK, I'm not sure” he huffed giving Lilli a slight glare "What about Brad Pitt, apparently I look like him in Interview With The Vampire" Tony smiled. "What when Brad Pitt hit the cookie jar" his sister laughed out in a playful tone earning herself dissaproving shake of the head from her brother. "Anyway” the host tried to stir the interview back to him leading it “finally, the last question, as we're out of time is I'm afraid, from Russell in Wigan, to you Lilli. Do you have a boyfriend? and would you like one?" the host asked with a cheeky tone in his voice and a matching smile, as Lilli burst into laughter and flopped slightly onto her brother who also attempted to stifle a chuckle. "Erm... well... I've not got a boyfriend at the moment but I am kind of happy single, so sorry..." Lilli added giving a mocking look of being a little melancholy. I was sat about 3 row back into the audience, on my own, mum and dad 'didn't do' the particular show and Phil, working the day after so couldn't get back down from Glasgow in time. At this point I'd not seen Lilli in about 6 months, although I'd been getting my weekly emails from her. I'd just dressed simple, smart dark blue jeans and a black shirt, I was only an audience member. Lilli wore her normal stage clothes, of black leather trousers and a vest top with black patent heels.... oh and her hair taken back into a princess style. She looked like she should have fronted a heavy metal band, even then The Wires were far from that, they only just scraped being classed as rock. The Wires had just finished their performance when the host walked over. He did the whole thing talking to Adam, whilst Lilli, Alex and Mark stood by his side. Everything seemed to be fine as the host turned to the camera and started to explain about tour dates until all that could be heard was Lilli and although what happened next was in a matter of a couple of minutes it seemed like hours. “Get your fucking hand off my arse” Lilli suddenly shouted out and jumped forward from between Adam and Alex “would you do that to Alex or Mark? NO!” she continued to yell now facing Adam, all the audience had fallen into a deadly silence and everyone including me watched on in a state of shock. “I'm sick of it, your little remarks” she added “I've had enough, you can fuck off, just fuck off and leave me alone” Lilli screamed at Adam whilst the host nervously looked at them both as the scene in front of him unfolded “I don't want anything to do with you or your fucking band, I quit!” she added in a her tone between a firm huff and an exasperated shriek. Then Lilli fell silent and gazed around, momentarily glancing behind her at the audience, cameramen and then finally her eyes met mine, before she ran off the set. “I'm her brother, please just let me through” I continued explained to the security guy who guarded the door to backstage. “No pass, no entry” he stated and eyed me. “Oh come on, just let me through” I argued, tucking my shoulder length hair behind my ears with a sigh. “Do you have a pass?” he asked with a sarcastic tone. “No, you know I don't” I huffed back at him, he was starting to really piss me off now. “Then no” the security guy said and continued to stare at me “I'll see if Ms Morgan wants to see you” he added noting the look on my face. “Thank you...” I offered in an equally sarcastic tone to how he'd spoke to me before he disappeared through the door. I checked my mobile again, no messages nor calls. I pushed the buttons to call Lilli... straight to voice mail, I didn't leave a message. Still Awake Lilli sat in front of her tiny laptop before she got into the shower. She scrolled down the forum topics, on the band's official website noticing that people seemed to have taken a keen interest in her comment regarding the attractiveness of Johnny Depp. It's funny that I think Johnny Depp is good looking now because when I was about 8 and first watched Edward Scissorhands, I was terrified of him. I screamed and cried, I don't think my fear of Edward Scissorhands was helped by Phil's taunting of it. “Lilli...” Phil called whilst I was playing with a ball of wool as my mum was knitting a baby blanket of one of our neighbours daughter's new baby boy. “Lilli...” he called again, I turned around and Phil had shoved a pair of my mum's knitting needles up his sweatshirt sleeve and was moving them in a scissor motion. Well I was hysterical, Tony even tried to console me with offering me a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle figure to play with. I fell asleep on Tony's bunk after crying my eyes out and refusing to talk to anyone. The hot water ran down the plug hole from the shower, Lilli added a hint of cold before she stepped in. Letting the soothing water pour over her head then resting it onto the tiled wall. It had come to Lilli's and the rest of the bands attention, by the way of Rafael, that the opposing band had been dropped from the programme at the last minute. Lilli had also been informed that the replacement band would be The Wires. Although she wasn't looking forward to seeing Adam again, she also had nothing to feel awkward about her departure from the band, it wasn't her who wouldn't take no for answer and took every opportunity to grope Adam. She grabbed the shower gel from the rack and squeezed a small amount into her hand and then rubbed her hands together lathering up the soft foam before wiping it onto her curvy body. The soap suds drizzled down her inner thighs and over her feet as she washed herself, her hands moving over her moist hot skin, her hair falling over her full breasts. Taking the razor she glided the blade over her legs, being careful not to nick herself, then moving the razor to her pubic hair. Holding her skin taught she ran the blade against her pelvic bone until any unwanted hair was gone. She twirled the razor in her fingers for a moment, deciding if her underarms need tending to but then placed the razor down, after glancing at them. Then reaching for the shampoo and running it through her now soaking hair, she allowed herself to think of why she was taking the time to do all this. After a very long day of interviews and a very short introduction to the contestants of the TV show that was starting the following day. She questioned herself for a few seconds, and then shrugged as she smoothed the fruity scented conditioner onto her hair. Still standing under the running water, Lilli relax her body but her mind moved onto the next part of this ritual she had been planning all day. What should she wear? She thought as she stepped onto the shower mat and grabbed a towel, her hair dripping tiny puddles onto the floor. She moved into the main area of the hotel suite, looking thoughtful at her clothes piled on the bed. Taking a pair of black jeans from the pile first. It wasn’t like he’d not seen her before, it really did not matter what she wore. Having now dried herself and blow-dried hair, looking in the mirror at her reflection, she frowned seeing her socks, maybe she would go to his room, bare foot... Pulling on her 'Munsters' t-shirt to match her jeans, Lilli now bare foot checked her reflection once more. Her smooth but full hair falling over her shoulders. Her make-up free face was pale but a perfect complexion for her when the sun had shied away from touching her skin. Now checking her watch, she doubted if she should go and see him now, it was 2.30am; surely, it could wait until another time. She stood with her hotel keys in one hand and thought for a moment. Placing the keys down and pulling her t-shirt off over her head, she sighed and decided things could wait until the morning. Slipping out of her jeans and placing them one nearby chair, her mind still mulling over things, as she pulled down her black lace pants, putting them beside the jeans. She bit the tags off a long white satin nightdress, which she had bought earlier that day, smoothing it over her body before climbing into bed and picking up her book. Fluffing the pillows up behind her head and then putting on her lilac framed glasses, holding the bookmark between her fingers she began to read. Though if anyone had asked her what words she read, she would have no idea, after the first two sentences her concentration had disappeared to somewhere else, what was he doing now? Most probably, asleep. She glanced at her watch that she kept on the bedside table, it has was 3am, suddenly and a little to her own surprise she jumped up out of the bed, the book falling on the floor, the pages she would once read now lost. She should go now to see him now, not tomorrow or some other time but now. Grabbing the room keys, she glanced in the mirror; things were a little fuzzy, her reflection puzzling her slightly. Then she realised she was still wearing her reading glasses, she dragged them from her face and placed them down on the bedside table, tutting to herself. Then the next thing Lilli knew she was walking calmly down the corridor then turning a corner, then there she was; she knocked and waited. The door opened, he stood there for a moment with his hair still tied back, in his t-shirt and shorts, a wide awake and surprised expression was on his face at the sight of Lilli there, in her nightdress, bare foot and hair looking a little fuzzed up at the back. "You want me, so here I am" Lilli stated her voice quivering slightly, he replied by stepping to one side, holding the door open for her to enter. Lilli looked around the hotel room that was subtly lit by the bedside lamps, a laptop on the desk playing some music softly and an undisturbed bed. "You weren't asleep?" she asked him turning as he closed the door. "No... I wasn't tired" he spoke quietly, sitting down on the bed and pulling the bobble from his dark brown hair. "Mmm..." Lilli momentarily resisted the temptation to ask him about the music was that played to divert from her original intention "can I sit down with you?" she asked, trying to sound relaxed but it didn't really work, her voice scraping against her throat. He pattered the bed beside him, which she went to and sat down, her left leg brushing against his pyjama shorts. “What's this playing?” she gave in and pondered as the answer was on the tip of her tongue “don't tell me” Lilli put her hand up as he frowned then opened his mouth to speak. “Do you want me to tell you?” he asked seeing the frustration growing on Lilli's face, as she nodded “it's the new Within Temptation album” he confirmed and rolled his eyes with a smile then went over to his laptop and looked at the CD “and it's track 2” he added still smiling then tucked his hair behind his ear. “I knew I'd heard it before somewhere” Lilli laughed out slightly mad at herself for not knowing which band it was. They sat in silence for several minutes, and then Lilli rested her head on his shoulder his hair soft against her cheek and unintentionally yawned. "So the show starts tomorrow" she whispered to him. "Yeah, it's definitely going to be interesting" he moved making Lilli turn her head and face him. He stared at her for a reaction, there was only her silence shortly lost in thought "Lilli, your not worried are you?" he questioned her softly. "No, it'll be interesting..." she stated with a cough feeling their conversation wasn't taking the direction she'd like then tucked her hair behind her ears awkwardly before placing her head back down on his shoulder. "Why did you come here? To talk about the show or something else?" He finally asked moving his shoulder slightly. "I told you... "She moved her hand over to beside his "to be with you" she replied softly, now raising her head and facing him once again. "At 3 in the morning?" he laughed out. "Good a time as any" she stated, her voice becoming slightly high pitched. "Well... yeah" he agreed as he moved a little closer, his lips very close to hers, she could feel his freshened breath, like a soft fresh breeze on the face. "Yeah..." Lilli replied her green eyes searching his as his fingers brushed against her lips delicately, a soft smile forming on his face. Lilli was trying to breathe normally as he buried his face into her hair taking in the fruity scent of her freshly washed hair. Her heart raced and she felt like the room was spinning around her. Leaning closer to him, knowing was what was to come, not just a kiss but where the kiss would lead again. He moved holding her cheek in his palm, feeling her lips a fraction away, the hot blood filling her lips, making them radiate warmth. She placed her hand on his upper thigh gently. There was a knock at the door, that made them both jump. "Who is it, at this time?" Lilli questioned, clutching at her nightdress to cover herself. "Relax, it's room service" he opened the door and greeted the room service attendant with a smile and thanks "Goodnight" he offered the man as he closed the door. "Why, have you ordered room service at this time of night?" She demanded to know, a splash of anger in her voice. "I told you, I wasn't tired and I wasn't expecting you to coming knocking on my door was I" he smiled at her as he picked up the plate, which had a sandwich on and returning to Lilli’s side. She watched him as he took a bite "Want some?" he asked noticing her stare as he swallowed. "No thanks" she declined with a smile. “I guess I should keep my strength for you, I know you" he smirked, Lilli rolled her eyes at him “joke" he offered her, as he took another bite then after a few moments of munching on the soft bread, placed his sandwich remains on the plate. It's feeding my mind, No one is saving you... "It's so late" Lilli leaned over placing his watch back down beside the light then she laid across the bed. “Look at you, looking all virginal and coy” he teased as she sat back and placed her hand on her chest in mocking offense “Don't you look like that, I know you've obviously been with other men, it's OK” he added placing a kiss on the top of her head as he sat back down by her side. “I'm just nervous” Lilli stated and blushed. "Why?” he questioned her and placed his hands on hers. "Well it's not like I've had a lot of experience” she stated in a coy manner then leaned forward to kiss to him before she seemed to change her mind and she looked at him. Her gaze full of emotions, and then quickly turned her attention to untying the chord of his shorts, her hands shaking so much, that they became tangled and knotted in the cord. What have you done? Is this what you wanted? What have you become... "Lilli, let me do that for you" he slipped her hands free and untied the chord with ease “you're shaking..."he questioned her with his eyes, bending round to see her face, she shook her head "it's just me, honestly relax" he gave a sincere smile earning himself a confirming grin from Lilli "It's nothing to worry about..." his voice was a soft whisper as he stroked over her cheek "we can take things slowly" he told her as she glanced away for a moment. "It's just me..." Lilli began "with you...I ... I mean... I want things to be perfect" She trailed off with a dry cough, blushing slightly embarrassed before facing him again. Your chains have been broken, You've suffered so long, You will never change... “It already is..” he confirmed again with a smile "Lillian..." he looked her up and down then placed his one palm on her cheek as his other arm wrapped around her before they fell back onto the bed with Lilli clutching at his cheek. Angels have faith, I don't want to be a part of his sin, I don't want to get lost in his world, I'm not playing this game...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 09:46:53 -0600

Also, I was thinking about what you said about it not being clear that it was from Elm POV. "I was sat about 3 row back into the audience, on my own, mum and dad 'didn't do' the particular show and Phil, working the day after so couldn't get back down from Glasgow in time. At this point I'd not seen Lilli in about 6 months". I don't get why that isn't clear, he talks about his parents, Phil, and then Lilli... who else is it going to be apart from him. :/

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 21:02:53 -0600

Also, I hope nobody will mind, it's not my first chapter but I'[m not sure were else to post it. I just want to know if the scene is funny? Actually there's a couple of scenes I could do with having some 'funny' feedback on but I can post everything, or I'll get my wrist slapped! Thanks for any feedback :) chapter 10 After the ceremony the Morgan siblings were back at the hotel. Lilli was now wearing a black empire line chiffon nightie that could be mistaken as a dress and over the knee socks to match. She knocked at Tony's room door, then casually glanced around as she waited for him to answer. “Evening, Miss Lilli...” her brother greeted her when he opened the door, slowly studying her from her black patent heels to her hair that had been swept away from her face in a princess style. “Are you going to let me in?” Lilli questioned him, as Tony lent against the door frame, in his black and lilac checked pyjamas shorts, his own hair was down and flowing freely down his bare back. “Maybe...” Tony shrugged “Yes...” he stated as his sister brought a pair of shiny metal handcuffs from behind her back. Quickly Lilli glanced to check that nobody was around before she stepped into the room. Once secluded in the hotel room, that was only lit up by the icy white hue coming from the glass fronted mini bar. Lilli pressed play on the CD player, that was on the small table by the glowing fridge. Lilli continued to dance and sing along to the CD, which played Seventh Son Of A Seventh Son, whilst her brother took a chilled bottle of white wine out of the mini bar. He opened it, discarding the wrapping onto the bedside table and taking a quick sip out of the bottle. Slowly unveiling the power he holds... Tony flashed his sister a seductive smile as he gestured for her to come-hither. Lilli danced over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. Then let her fingertips wondered along the length of his hair. Dave pushed the buttons for a few random floors, in his drunken state as he got into the lift. As he swayed from side to side he finally selected the correct one for the floor he wanted. “This is on repeat isn't it?” Lilli breathed out feeling the cold metal drop against her wrists as she straddled her brother, her nightie and lilac lace pants now somewhere on the floor. “I was practising for earlier, you know just refreshing my memory of the original” her brother explained. “It's the cover song on our album, you should know it” his sister muttered “you better not lose the key” Lilli stated as she momentarily glanced at her bound wrists that firmly attached her to the silver metal of the headboard. “Just watch the shoes” he replied as he rested a hand against her bare thigh “and would I lose the key” Tony added then placed the key on the bedside table. The seventh, the heavenly, the chosen one... Dave staggered down the corridor attempting to focus on the room numbers. The use of his power before it's too late... Just as Lilli had eased herself up onto her knee's with her hands raised slightly above her head still fixed in place, she felt her brother rustle behind her and brush against her hips. There was a sudden loud knock at the door, that made Lilli jump and kick her legs slightly. “Fuck...” Tony yelped as his sisters shiny black heel jabbed at his bare thigh, making him move backwards and fall with a thud from the bed, making the side table shake slightly. “Tony, mate you up” Dave drunkenly shouted through the door and knocked again. “Shit!” Lilli gasped “undo me” she hissed at Tony and wriggled her wrists, whilst her brother franticly scrabbled up and reached for the key. “Oh fuck” Tony muttered, his hands searched over the smooth dark varnish of the table. “TONY! I know your there, I can hear you....” Dave shouted again then began to sing and fell over causing a heavy thud against the door. “You LOST the fucking key....” Lilli's voice was hushed but strained and dropped her head between her raised arms. “I didn't lose the key” her brother argued back now feeling around on the floor near the bed. “Come on mate” Dave banged hard against the door once he was back to his feet “I need a piss...” he added and fell against the door slightly. “What are you doing?” Lilli asked as Tony emptied the contents of his suit case onto her “he's going to have the whole fucking hotel up” she said with a worried tone to her voice. “Try and lay down and cover yourself with the duvet” Tony throw another t-shirt onto her, then rushed to the door “Dave I'm coming...” he called. “Tony” Lilli hissed at her brother to no response as she tried to cover her body. “Ssh...” her brother hushed her and waved her to keep quite. “Anthony...” she said again in a harsh tone. “What?” her brother turned as there was another knock at the door. “Your naked... and you might want to do something about that” Lilli explained then gestured with her eyes to below his waist. “Dave just give me a minute...” Tony called as he rushed into the bathroom, discarded the condom before he grabbed his pyjamas shorts from the bed and tried to hide the remnants of his arousal. “Why is it always me doing the hiding” Lilli muttered to herself as she slid down as much as should could onto her back, trying to pull a t-shirt over her bound hands. “Anthony.... mate....” the bassist greeted Tony as he opened the door “been stood here” he muttered before he burst into laughter. “Dave, what are you doing here?” Tony asked with laugh. “Because.... yoooou....” he swayed as he tried to point at Tony then throw his arm around Tony's shoulder, as he staggered into the room “YOU my friend are great....“ Dave slurred, then let go of Tony and attempted to make his way into the en-suite bathroom. As Tony turned the CD player off, he saw expected to see that Lilli was fully covered, his eyes widened as he noticed one of her hands poking out of the pile of clothes. “Tony, Tony....” Dave muttered and wondered out of the toilet zipping up his jeans “we need a drink... you're a good man...” he continued as he made his way to the mini bar, as Tony shoved a pillow against his sisters arms to hide her hand. “Where's everyone else, Sarah, Stuart?”Tony asked casually as Dave who was now sat by the mini bar, handed him a can of Fosters, knowing that this was a grin and bare it situation he and Lilli were now in. “Them!” Dave raised his voice taking a large swig of the cold amber liquid “mah, they pissed off... light weights....” he explained swiftly downing the rest of the can before grabbing another. “Why don't you go to bed....” Tony suggested perching himself on the edge of the bed, feeling Lilli move her feet. “Yoooou, you know... how long I have known you... when Stu brought you to that pub quiz” Dave burst into laughter “you were fucking shit... but your a good man... geeky but good” Dave laughed then scrabbled up to his feet, waving his can in Tony's direction “trying to get rid of me” he swayed, ready to fall straight onto the bed. “No mate...”Tony quickly put his can down and jumped up to support him “you have your drink” he added as Dave put his can down, laughing once again and hugging Tony. “Where's your drink gone?” Dave asked and narrowed his eyes at Tony. “Here” Tony grabbed his can from the bedside table. “This my drink?” Dave held up his can then narrowed his eyes again, looking at heap of clothes on the bed “What you doing, with all them, there all yours?” he pointed and smiled. “mmm” Tony replied taking a sip of his can, for a moment he let go of Dave's shoulder. Before Tony could stop him, Dave slowly fell forward, causing Lilli to let out a groan of pain whilst he slid down the side of the bed. In a split second Dave was back up from the floor leaning on the bed, or more precisely resting what felt to Lilli like his full weight on her legs, that he'd just fell against. “I'm up.... he's up...” Dave shouted waving his arms around then steadied himself on the floor, he looked up at Tony with a funny look of puzzlement on his face, before holding up Lilli's flimsy nighie. “Dave...” Tony began before Dave cut him off. “Why have you got woman's clothes in here....” the bassist eyed him “Tony?” Dave after he glanced around where he sat looking for more women's clothes then saw the condom wrapper on the table “you've had a woman in here?” he questioned Tony, who was mentally cursing himself for not putting the wrapper in the bin. “Yeah” Tony replied quickly and gave a bit of a coy smile to Dave, who was still holding the skimpy black item gingerly. Then he slammed his hands back down against Lilli's legs, forcing her to move and groan again “your bed just made a noise?” he stated letting the nightie fall and eyeing Tony, his hand grabbed at a pair of jeans. “No, it didn't, Dave come on....” Tony protested looking at the pile of clothes the his sister laid beneath, then to his horror as Dave moved the jeans, Lilli's socked legs and pale thighs were revealed. “Jesus Christ... what did you do to her Tony” Dave shocked, jumped up from the bed “It's her fucking body...” he shouted at the top of his voice then pulled at the clothes to find what was lurking underneath. “DAVID!” Tony hissed at him whilst he tried to grab at his arms “it's not a body... leave it, leave it” he shouted back and pulled Dave away from Lilli, who's muffled cries were coming from under the pillow. “What....” The bassist gasped as he cautiously moved the pillow, seeing Lilli out of breath and handcuffed to the bed. “Dave...” Lilli greeted him with a wave of a fixed hand and a sheepish look on her face as she cleared her throat. Her nakedness still covered by her brothers clothes. “You alright?” Tony asked and moved over to his sister, who nodded in reply. “What? Lilli? What you doing here?” Dave questioned in his drunken state whilst he staggered around in a full circle by the bed, then noticed that Lilli was naked under the shield of clothes. After a second or two of staring at Lilli then at her brother, Dave's eyes narrowed and the look of puzzlement vanished “you?” he pointed at Tony with his can before downing the last of his drink “and her...?” he looked at Lilli before putting the empty can on the table “shagging...?” he waved his hand at them both and scratched his cropped mousey hair “Jesus fucking Christ!” Dave exclaimed, before once again falling onto the bed and sliding onto the floor. Tony just managed to quickly push his sister's legs out of harms way. “Dave?” Tony called and peered over the bed to see Dave laid in a star shape on the floor “Dave?” his voice was soft, after a few seconds of silence, snoring started to emit from the bassist. “Fuck me” Lilli muttered, trying to push herself up onto her knees again. “I was trying too...” Tony said with a smirk. “Oh shut up and find the key....” his sister huffed as she tried to blow her hair away from her lips. Now free and dressed Lilli tried to drag Dave across Tony's hotel room in his drunken slumber. “Lils, what are you doing, you can't drag him” her brother laughed as he slipped on a t-shirt. “Come on, you get his other arm” Tony instructed pulling Dave's right arm over his shoulder “we'll have to move him this way...” he added as Lilli pulled Dave's limp arms onto her. Tony pushed the bottom in the brightly illuminated lift to go to the next floor, attempting to keep Dave upright against the lift wall. “You could have changed your bottoms” Lilli stated as the doors opened. “What? Why?” her brother replied gripping hold of their bassist again “Dave, what room are you, mate?” Tony said and shook him slightly to no response. “Because there awful, lilac and black...” Lilli gave an approving nod “but checked” she explained as they pulled Dave out of the lift, propping him against the wall. “Mum got them for me....” Tony looked down bashfully “and at the moment my pyjamas aren't the first thing on my mind” he added as Dave began to slouch over. “David” Lilli said harshly and grabbed at Dave's face “Dave...” she sighed glanced at her socked feet and then gave the bassist a firm slap across the face, awakening him and earning a shocked look from her brother “What room are you?” Lilli asked holding his head to face her. “What? What's going on? I'm up....” Dave mumbled his face falling onto Lilli's chest. “Your room?” Tony asked as they began to dragged him along the corridor “and where's your room key?” he added. “Shit...” Lilli whispered seeing Adam at the other end of the corridor, his arm draped around a young blonde haired girl “not him...” she sighed to Tony. “356... just ignore him...” Tony stated after searching Dave's pockets for his room key “come on... 348...” he muttered and they shuffled a now semi conscious Dave along. Adam stared at Lilli and Tony as he passed them, his eyes momentarily locked with Lilli's before she quickly turned away. “Oi...” Dave's head suddenly shut up as he swayed round to face Adam “you” he called and straightened his shirt. “Yeah” Adam replied raising an eyebrow, at the dishevelled and half dressed trio. “These are lovely people... and yoooou Sir....” Dave slurred and tried to point in Adam's direction but failed “you are stupid” he spat out just before he hit the floor of the carpeted corridor. “Come on” Adam muttered to the girl as they wondered down to a room, leaving Lilli and Tony staring down at Dave. When we were little, I'd chase Lilli around our garden dressed as a cowboy, wisps of my hair sticking out from under my hat. Lilli would feign an Indian girl, with the dress on and the feather headdress. In reality we more resembled a long haired Pugsley and Wednesday Addams. “Please don't hurt me...” Lilli pleaded, her hair divided into two long pigtails. “You have to stay here... until sheriff gets here...” I told her whilst wrapping the thick rope around her wrists and then looping it around the tree. Dad had shown me how to make the knot so it wouldn't tighten and hurt Lilli. “Do you think he'll remember...?” Lilli asked as she stood next to her brother in the bright lift after putting Dave to bed. “Maybe... wouldn't you?” Tony sighed “I'll have a word in the morning” he added then rested his head against the lift wall.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

harrypoter4ever — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 15:09:44 -0600

Chapter One: A Journey Begins I roll over on my bed seeking the warmth of my blankets and I can’t find them. I hate my brother. I get up and stretch. It’s the beginning of winter and I am freezing. It becomes really cold in our winters, but I can tell this will be one of the coldest winters ever recorded. “Oh, good. You’re finally up. I need you to go hunt because we’re out of meat. And Prince Kyle told me to tell you that he’ll be out hunting around noon. Now go ahead and do your chores,” says Tynoc, my whiny younger brother who thinks he’s invincible. “You can’t tell me what to do. I went hunting yesterday and killed three deer. I gave one to the butcher and kept two for us. So unless you threw them out in the snow because they each had one bad spot in the shoulder, we should still have two!” But I go over to the door and grab my bow. I have an unnatural gift with it and hunting. I can shoot at anything in complete darkness and not miss. Animals usually don’t hear me when I approach until I’m within two yards and then it’s too late. Same with Kyle who’s my best friend. “Where’s my knife Tynoc?” I ask. He had been looking at me and now he drops his gaze. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. I sigh because he is so pathetic. Like he doesn’t know. “Sure you don’t. Where is my knife?” I put down my bow and threaten him this time by darting behind him and pulling his arm behind his back and twist it. “Ow! Mommy!” My mother comes in. “Kathryn, what do you think you’re doing? Why are you breaking Tynoc’s wrist?” she asks me. I maintain my grip on Tynoc’s wrist while I answer her. “He stole my knife and won’t give it back. He also claims that the two deer I got yesterday have been eaten or been thrown out. And I was going hunting to spend time with Kyle,” I tell her. “So I need my knife.” She stares at me. “Let go of him. Tynoc give her back her knife,”she tells us. Tynoc gives me back my knife. I hold on to his wrist for another minute before letting it go. “So do I need to go hunting or what?” I ask her. “Yes, you need to go hunting.” I go outside and stand in the frigid air. Snow is starting to fall lightly. Mother comes outside and hands me my father’s old hunting jacket. I put it on and I think about Father. He’s an explorer and hasn’t been home in three or four years. Mother thinks he’s abandoned us. I know she’s wrong. I just know it! “Aren’t you going to wear shoes in this?” she asks. No, I’m not going to wear shoes in this weather. I shake my head. She goes back inside. I go inside and string my bow. My bow is really my father’s bow that he gave to me before he left. It’s made of polished blackwood. I fill up my quiver which holds two dozen arrows. Half my arrows are arrows smoke hardened maple tips used to bring down small game like fowl, squirrels, raccoons et cetera. The other half are smoke hardened maple with metal tips used to take down deer, moose, elk et cetera. I live in an empire that needs all the help it can get. Our emperor is a man called Colyn Tyrant. He makes laws that turns our empire into disarray. He is a tyrant. At school we learn the history of our empire, Thespryan. It’s said that he murdered all of his competitors and all his friends that had the potential to threaten his position in government. Which I personally believe. If it’s true, I doubt he lost a single night’s sleep over it. He rules with an iron fist. You break a law and he finds out, you’re dead. No second chances. No apologies. I live in a poor town called Halcyone. Tyrant fails to acknowledge us as long as we don’t make any trouble that will bother him or undermine his power. Unfortunately for him I’m friends with his son. Unfortunately for me Tyrant lives ten miles away. I put down my bow, leaving it strung, and go outside to walk over to the black market. I go and visit some of my friends who trade there. We get most of our money from my trading or selling. None of the higher class ever visit, but they don’t need to. “Hi Kera. Why are you hear so early?” I ask one of my friends. Because she’s never here before noon and it’s five o’clock in the morning now. “Mom sent to buy some bandages, clothes, and food,” she says. Kera has two brothers, Iam and Curt, who are younger than her. Her mother is our town’s healer. I give Kera some money. “Here. Use this for the stuff you need.” Her eyes are beginning to tear up. “It was a gift.” She nods and goes. “Being nice for change?” cackles the town drunk, Marcel. He’s almost always at the black market buying liquor. He’s right though, I never do things for anyone except my family and Kyle. And that’s because I’m the only one in my family who can feed us. As for Kyle, well, I’ve known him forever. I go over to one stall. It’s the stall that gives free lunches if you visit it frequently. “Hey, Kat. Want some sandwiches?” says the guy who owns the stall. “Knock it off Mark. You’re not as cool as you think you are,” I say. He leans backward. He is so full of himself and thinks that all girls are attracted to him. He can keep dreaming, for all I care. “Sorry Kat. Do you want some sandwiches?” he asks. I glare at him. “Stop calling ‘Kat’. It’s not my name. My name is Kathryn so call me that. Yeah I want two sandwiches so shut up,” I tell him coldly. He goes behind the counter to get my sandwiches. He reappears with two turkey sandwiches and gives them to me. I walk out and go back home. I fill up my hunting with supplies since Kyle and I will hunting most of the day. Bread, cheese, apples, arrows, knives, and two torches. That’s what I put in bag along with a few blankets. I’m about to walk out the door when hear my mother. “Kathryn where were you?” demands Mother. I avoid looking at her. She disapproves my visiting the black market so often. Even though it saves us. “At the black market,”I tell her. Her jaw drops. I see the look that she gets whenever she’s going to deliver a lecture. I grab my bow and run out the door before she can give me a lecture. “Kathryn! Get back here,” she yells. Not likely. I head for the woods before I remember the fence. It would be better suited to be called a wall. It’s made of metal links, and electricity is always running through it. And it’s a little over fifteen feet tall. The reason it should be called a wall is because the links are barely two centimeters apart and can’t be broken. Fortunately Kyle and I know one section that we can climb over using a tree. Difficult to back over when we have big game, but Kyle usually just throws it over. The fence is there to prevent us from leaving or going somewhere without authorization.

Excerpt from my first Chapter.. A Unified Entity

alex.hebert — Tue, 24 Jan 2012 14:15:05 -0600

Within the Head Drone’s deep chamber swelled a large meeting of guards. Even through the dimness of the chamber the shadows of the tall abled bodies could be seen on the dirt floor; their long green limbs moving with sleek graceful power as they greeted their newest member, their wide heads cocked to the side and framed by their mandibles observing his initiation. Their powerful jaws moved in swift clicking motions as they cautiously welcomed Mantid, as often occurred while enlightening any new member to the information which only the Head Drone and them were privy to. They watched as the Head Drone finished Mantid’s initiation by informing the hesitant young guard of the truth about the Surface, a knowledge all lower classes of the colony were kept from. “How can you be sure of what’s up there?” asked Mantid. “I can’t be sure exactly…but there are two possible outcomes to its discovery. Either it will prove to be a fatal environment, or it will be abundant in commodities we do not require…either way the colony will be lost, along with any hope of the completion of my kingdom before I pass. That is why it is your job along with the other guards to be sure that no member of this colony ever reaches the surface… and if they do, it is your responsibility to silence them.” Soon after the meeting, the two toks could be heard, signaling the time for the colonies mid-day meal. Skittering passed Mantid with their short but quick legs were a group of Diggers whose powerful dirt covered jaws, looked ravenously hungry for their daily meal, while close behind him followed the Plowers whose jaws, though much wider and thinner, were also covered in dirt from smoothing the expanding caves dug up from the diggers. Soaring above him were the long thin stingers of the much feared Regulators who constantly hovered above the workers, threatening those who were not performing well in their duties. Lastly, Mantid noted the group of extraordinary Passers, so named for their ability to pass rocks from level to level via their extremely long and crooked black necks, and the strength of their blood red abdomens. A couple members of the colony were not allowed in the food chamber, such as Tok-Tok the eldest member of the colony whose daily duties were to signal the members the time of day by clicking his round rigid abdomen against the Great Rock located in the bottom-most chamber, and the Queen whose drones of the Birthing Chamber constantly consumed food and fed her from their own jaws. Though the Queen was not allowed in the food chamber because of her constant duties of birthing workers, Tok-Tok was not allowed because of his low class level; having a duty within the lowest of the chambers, as he did, doomed his chances of hierarchy within the colony since each member’s class level was dependent on what species they were born as. Mantid was glad he had been born the same species as the Guards, for they were the second highest in the hierarchy after the Head Drone and the Queen, however he felt badly for those who were born as workers—which, although diverse in species and duties, all fell in the middle class, and he felt even worse for Tok-Tok and secretly respected him greatly. However, Mantid’s silent observations were interrupted as it was his turn to receive his pod of food. He could smell the delicious sap which had been gathered by the mouths of the long and colorful Collectors and passed to the small green beetles of the Food Chamber, whose duties were to form the loose sap into pods and distribute them equally among members at meal time. Large clear roots located in a chamber connected by caves to both the Birthing Chamber and the Food Chamber, which secreted a sweet yellowish sap, were the only source of the colony’s nutrients, and though all members were curious as to what plant provided these roots above the Surface, they knew not to ask or make any mention of it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Storyteller:) — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 13:35:15 -0600

Out the window of her bedchamber, Elisabeta’s eyes wandered to a curious scene that was occurring below. She saw a man, who appeared to be crouched close to the ground and was intently playing with something. The intensity shown by this stranger peaked her curiosity and she had to know what exactly was keeping this adult man so interested and low to the ground. Elisabeta squinted her eyes in an attempt to view the situation better. The curly dark head tipped side to side as if in a state of intense fascination. The arms and hands were busy with something small, which he took great care to guard by darting his head in various directions like a person would if they were to be on the look out for intrusion. Elisabeta moved to the side of the window that she thought might give her a better vantage point to see the busyness of his hands. She could see a long pink tail and gray body of something that appeared to be struggling, while the man fidgeted. It had to be a rat. What on earth would a person want with one of those dirty, filthy animals. She could not understand what would possess a person to touch one of those scavengers, let alone play with one. She heard a loud shriek sound from below the window and knew it must have been the rat. She turned away from the window in disgust at the situation, as she could not tolerate any more of it. The creature continued to wail for what seemed to be an eternity and then became quiet.Elisabeta wandered over to the window to take a tentative peek, afraid of what she might encounter. The man was gone; however, there laid the rat, which appeared to be skewered with a twig. It had gone right through the animal’s body and the bloody end of it protruded from its mouth. In stunned curiosity, she studied the view and then backed away from her window. She could not make sense of what had just occurred and shuddered at the thought of the person who would take the time to kill an animal in such a manner. Chapter 1 The Wanderings of Elisabeta The sun fell below the dark hills and valleys of the Transylvanian countryside, Elisabeta could hear a faint, but audible echo that appeared to be the haunting sound of her mother recalling her to imprisonment within the walls that contained a silent torment, which she learned to endure. She took one last look at the dark mounds that loomed among the horizon, as a promise that she could not quite capture. The toes of her bare feet gripped the grassy earth below her, as a falcon that would grip a prized meal, or token from her master. However, in the fields, she had no master and felt free. It was the only place that she felt the freedom to imagine what life could be like, outside of the grim walls of the fortress, which she languished. Her father was cruel and her mother was a bitter, wizened looking woman with the beady anxious eyes of someone who was accustomed to being on alert for the next blow, or on the search for the next opportunity for escape. Above everything, Elisabeta did not want to become like her beady, pathetically desperate mother. She wanted to be a strong woman, a woman of notice that could capture the heart of a man and twist it between her teeth if she so desired. Anger and frustration lived side by side in her life. However, while she may keep the anger, she would control and restrain the frustration from evolving into desperation. She would not allow it. The wind sifted through her long dark hair and she closed her eyes to take a deep breath of the last few moments of freedom for the day. She then placed her bare feet in the direction of the source from which she fled. She would escape from that place once and for all one day. She could feel it in the deep recesses of her heart that it would be in a place where she would not have to fear the cruelty and torment of someone who should have shown love and protection. It would be in a place that people would fear and no one would ever touch her again for apprehension of who she would become. As she became closer to the property of her family heritage, the memories and anguish flooded her mind, like a broken pot would leak water. The agony and ordeals that she’d suffered were slowly gathered and followed her as she progressed back to the castle. She tried to look up at the bright sky to appreciate the last bit of sun and absorb the remaining freedom, which she felt; however, with every step an unpleasant memory came to mind and just served to confirm that she was indeed back home. She could not deny that the property was beautiful. The grass had an unusually glossy green hue to it; the sheep kept it maintained well during the summer months. The way that the hillside met the tops of the trees appeared to be somewhat ethereal from a distant view and the little river that ran between created a reflection of dazzle on the sunniest of days. The castle was well kept, as the servants knew the expectations and the dangers of violating even the smallest of those expectations. From the outside, it looked like a castle as beautiful as one of a Boyer. “What a shame..” Elizabeta drew in a deep breath and took one last look at the free sunshine. She put on her clogs, as a lady of her station should not be running around the fields barefoot, that were located by the back entrance to the kitchen and proceeded to enter hoping that she would remain unnoticed and unquestioned. The scullery maid looked at her disapprovingly but went about her business when shot a sharp glance; she squared her shoulders and walked through the kitchen and out into the hall. It was mid day, so father had not returned from his errands in the town and mother was nowhere to be seen. Elisabeta walked toward through the halls in an effort to make it to her room before actually having to speak with another human being. Relieved that she made it into her room without having to confront her mother yet, she walked towards the window and looked outside as if to lengthen her day outside of the castle a little longer. A gentle “knock” and the sound her maid Irena, calling to her outside of the door brought her back from her pastoral travels. “Elisabeta, my lady your mother is looking for you. Please open the door.” Elisabeta blinked her eyes and took a deep breath in and out again so that she would be able to smile at the wide-eyed Irena, who was now no doubt a little nervous about making mother wait. She opened her door and with a face which revealed no emotion “Yes, Irena?” Irena curtsied and nodded her head, without looking up; “Your mother would like to see you in the foyer.” “Thank you, let her know to expect me straight away.” Elisabeta searched for a face on Irena; and then her curious eyes, and for a brief moment was able to give her an encouraging smile. Elisabeta heaved the door shut as quickly as she could, brushed her skirting off and held the sides of her headdress to make absolutely certain that it was on straight and there were no little hairs peeping out anywhere. She muttered to herself “ I had hoped for an entire day without contact, it was bad enough that she called me in. How might she believe she may ornament my life today?” That said, she hurried to the door and made her way for the foyer.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

MyEvilTwin — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 07:58:14 -0600

Isla de Pastel Inclinado sat on the ocean like a lopsided cake. It was a small island, just under 100 acres, somewhere in the Caribbean. Nobody knew exactly where it was since the original cartographer had been quite sloshed on rum and drawn it in completely the wrong place. An error which had never been corrected satisfactorily. The island had originally been colonized by the Spanish in the seventeenth century and most of the buildings where from this time or in some cases from the eighteenth century. It was just the warehouses, cranes and the breakwaters in the harbor that where from the twentieth century. The harbor was on the South side of the island where the lowest point was. From there the island rose at an angle between 30 to 50 degrees up to the North side where the castle was built at the edge of a sheer drop down to the ocean. The island had one street that winded it’s way from the harbor to the castle. It stopped briefly in the middle where there was a square, named Richmond Square by the Leader. There in one corner was a small bakery that will prove significant to the story, but more about that later. It had been quite a colorful island too, every building in a different color. But that was only until the day he arrived, the Leader, your run of the mill genocidal maniac, a garden variety war criminal. His name was Mason Jebediah Wallace III. In our universe he would have been Adolf Hitler, but this was a slightly different universe where there was only one world war that happened in the 30s and went on well into the 40s. The man who started it, who led the New Confederate Army in a bloody march across north, Central and South America and even into Russia through Alaska was this very same Mason Jebediah Wallace. It was in Russia that his progress stopped and he was eventually driven back and defeated. He brought his closest men and fled to this island where he’s stayed ever since. Once he had arrived he had ordered that all buildings should be re-painted to either white, black or shades of gray. The same went for vehicles, furniture and clothing. Being a white supremacist with a history of genocide he didn't have a problem with making anybody not white disappear from the island. All the remaining population were required to shave their heads so they wouldn't notice differences in hair pigmentation. He then limited the supply of food and only allowed one piece of music, two works of art, a portrait and a statue of himself, and only one stage play which he'd written himself. He also forbade all languages except English. The people living on the island at the time of his arrival had some trouble with these restrictions but several generations later very few knew what life had been like before. All it took was a baker’s apprentice to bring Wallace down. The boy who would be that apprentice had no idea of his future role as he sat eating his evening meal with his parents one fateful night. Leonardo Young was ten years old the night he lost his parents. His mother Sophia had named him Leonardo for the famous painter Leonardo da Vinci. Of course very few on this island had ever heard of this historical figure since according to Wallace there were only one painting. Sophia knew of him as she weren’t from the island originally. She had moved there from the mainland as a spy and liaison for the resistance and had fallen in love with and married resistance member Jimmy Young. She had given Leonardo that name because she had hoped that he would be as gifted and intelligent as his namesake. That shouldn’t work, of course. Yet it did. It may have something to do with the fact that she had some artistic talent herself that Leonardo, or Leo for short, had inherited. She would bring him crayons and paint in many different colors and he would create colorful masterpieces in many different styles that she proudly displayed on the refrigerator door against Jimmy’s protests. He was afraid that the Security PolIce Force lead by Police Chief Lucas Langston Sr, himself would make one of his surprise visits and see the paintings and find the Rube Goldberg machines Leo would build in his bedroom and that would basically mean that Langston would reward all three of them with a bullet to the neck each. It was a legitimate concern. Leo lifted the sandwich to his mouth and took a bite and then he chewed. He chewed some more. And then he kept on chewing. This wasn’t the least bit unusual. It was the same bread they had every morning, day and night. It was the one type of bread that was baked in the one bakery that served the entire island. It was “the bread everybody on the island loved and adored so there was no need for any other bread”. The bread was always this coarse. Or “high on fibre” as some would say a bit too enthusiastically whenever a police man was near. It was like eating a piece of leather. Finally Leo swallowed. Then his eyes focused on the glass of water in front of him. He reached out his hand to dip the sandwich in the water to make it a bit softer to chew. Jimmy grabbed his wrist and stopped him. “Don’t ever do that. Not when anybody can see you. You know everybody is supposed to love the bread as it is. If you dip it people will think you’re different and that is a one way ticket to an early grave” Jimmy said.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

nijusjaanu — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 10:10:32 -0600

Arg. let's try this again (in the right thread). I've reworked the first chapter of The Silent Treatment (a nano novel from a few years ago I'm about to publish on Smashwords), and would like your opinion on how it works. Some have complained that it wasn't engaging enough. Here are the first 500 words: Chapter 1 Bridget skipped their usual exit on I-40 and headed toward the mall. Kat furrowed her brow and the grouchy inner six-year-old within her weary twenty-five-year-old body stirred. "I thought we were going home." "I wanna check the hours of the store." "Everything opens at ten." "I want the closing." She rolled through an empty strip mall parking lot to the Verizon storefront, squinted at the tiny sign on the door, and accelerated away with the information. "Are you gonna get a new phone or see if they can fix yours?" Bridget winced. "I'll probably catch a disease if I use this one." "What happened in the ladies room?" Kat asked, closing her eyes. "I never got the chance to ask you." "I dropped my cell in the toilet." Giddy, sleepy laughter erupted from Kat. "Right as it happened, I screamed, 'Oh shit!' and this chick at the sink just ran out. I could've been having an aneurysm." Bridget nudged the stereo volume down, opting not to combat the stress of work with her usual show-tune singalong. "I think I scared her." "Why do you talk in the stall anyway?" Kat asked. "I hate being on the other end of that conversation." "Because our bitch manager doesn't care we're human beings who need to make personal calls." She paused. "How you holding up?" "The vampire shift sucks like you said it would," Kat said and laughed at her own pun, but quickly sobered. "This isn't what I wanted," she said. "Nobody wants to work in a pest control call center." In lieu of returning to the highway for the rest of their short trip, she snaked through a residential area of nearly identical houses. Kat closed her eyes again to alleviate the fatigue headache spreading across her face. "I didn't like Philly, but I always thought we'd move to New York. Not back here." "You promised not to talk about this when you're tired. You'll cry or do something you'll regret. And stop saying we." Kat squeezed her upper arm. Without visual aid, the last green and yellow bruise might never have existed. "Besides," Bridget added, "Memphis is a hole. My brother moved back. That chick from the theater class we took together moved back. I need to call her—" She clicked her tongue. "Damn it. I hope those jackasses get my numbers out. I don't have anything backed up." She huffed. "Who uses paper when you've got an awesome phone?" "Even paper gets ruined in a toilet." Parked cars choked both sides of the road around a corner, and Kat whistled. "Someone had a good party last night." "Oh hey, here's an open spot." Kat straightened as Bridget parallel parked. "I want to sleep." "It's an estate sale, not a party. After our shitty night, we could use some affordable retail therapy." She shut off the engine. "We might find something for your sad, empty apartment." ...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

alex.hebert — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 10:25:40 -0600

Revision of an Excerpt from my 1st Chapter of, "A Unified Entity" Within the Head Drone’s deep chamber swelled a large meeting of guards. Even through the dimness of the chamber the shadows of the tall abled bodies could be seen on the dirt floor; their long green limbs moving with sleek graceful power as they greeted their newest member, their wide heads cocked to the side and framed by their mandibles observing his initiation. Their powerful jaws moved in swift clicking motions as they cautiously welcomed Mantid, as often occurred while enlightening any new member to the information which only the Head Drone and them were privy to. They watched as the Head Drone finished Mantid’s initiation by informing the hesitant young guard of the truth about the Surface, a knowledge all lower classes of the colony were kept from. “How can you be sure of what’s up there?” asked Mantid. “I can’t be sure exactly…but there are two possible outcomes to its discovery. Either it will prove to be a fatal environment, or it will be abundant in commodities we do not require…either way the colony will be lost, along with any hope of the completion of my kingdom before I pass. That is why it is your job along with the other guards to be sure that no member of this colony ever reaches the surface… and if they do, it is your responsibility to silence them.” That night, after Tok-Tok, the hard shelled beetle, signaled the end of the day’s work with three toks, Mantid rested quietly in his chamber thinking about what he had been told. Naturally, he was curious as to what truly was above the surface and yet, though he knew it would be fatal to openly admit it, he yearned to see for himself what was beyond the dirt chambers that surrounded him. “It must be magnificent” he thought. He had found it hard to share the Guards’ opinions as he listened to their frightening theories of the surface, and their glorious stories of the “rebellious members” they had silenced. Mantid was not even so sure they were rebellious; just young and curious, more like himself than rebels. Whatever the case was, Mantid was well aware of his luckiness to have been born as the same species of the Guards, second only in hierarchy to the Head Drone himself, and for this reason Mantid vowed to fulfill the duties a species born of his kind was required. Yet, through a near sleepless night, he could not shake his curiosity of what lay above the surface.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 17:26:47 -0600

PITCH A: As I started to drive, all I could think about was, “What if it comes out positive?” I was helpless. Not sure what to do. I pulled into the driveway, and ran straight for the bathroom. I pulled the directions out and began doing what I had to do. “What am I going to do?” I thought. '5 Minutes Later...' I slowly took the test off the sink and read what it said... ‘PREGNANT’ I slowly walked out of the bathroom and went to my room... Moments later my mom called me down to dinner. As I sat with a confused look on my face trying to eat, my little brother whispered something into my dad’s ear. “Courtney dear, what's wrong? You're hardly touching your food. Is something going on between you and Brian?” My mother asked. “No mom, everything is fine. Just not hungry, may I be excused?” “Yes.” As I slowly headed into my room I could hear my parents whisper about the way I'm acting. Should I just tell them? Or should I get rid of it before they find out? Suddenly I heard a knock in my door. “Sweetie, may I come in?” “Yes, mom.” I replied. “Hunny what's going on..?” “Mom, I don't know how to say this. But I'm... Preg.... nant...” “YOU’RE WHAT?!” “I'm sorry! I don't know what to do... Or what to say...” PITCH B: As I started to drive, I couldn’t help but think, “What if it’s positive?” I didn’t want to think that. I mean, what’s the chance? I probably just skipped a period, nothing more. Why worry? Soon I arrived home. I peeked in thru the windows. My family was in the living room, from what I could tell. I quietly snuck inside and upstairs, a box of pregnancy test’s hidden in my backpack. I reached my bathroom and pulled out the test. “Here goes nothing,” I said, doing as the directions told. I set it facedown and waited. “Five minutes.” I sat down and checked Facebook. Nothing really new there. Before I knew it the five minutes had passed. I went and started to pick it up, then I set it down really quick. “Okay,” I said, taking a deep breath. “One, two, three.” I flipped it over and saw two lines. My hands instantly flew to my mouth. This couldn’t be happening. It was positive.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Bent Letters — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 11:09:45 -0600

PROLOGUE Nikki investigated each passing neck, searching for the dreadful scorpion tattoo of her old boyfriend. She sat at the far end of the bus bench on Wade Avenue, crammed against the wire bench's ornate black side rail, her right hand clutched around it. Her left knee kept touch with her luggage case. It held her most important treasures inside. With her other hand, she fidgeted with the handle. Around her, Friday morning traffic overwhelmed the sidewalk and street like a fast eddying river of human bodies and automobiles. She kept a constant vigil of the people. Her brown eyes darted. She barely ruled out one face before a new one emerged. Her obstinate scrutiny drew her more than a few hard stares in return. She could care less. She glanced again down the street, hoping to catch sight of the big yellow body of the bus that would come to her rescue. Her throat felt raspy. She wondered if she was coming down with something. She picked up her bottle of water, uncapped it, and took a few long gulps. The water seemed to make it worse, so she capped the bottle, placed it back on the bench, and continued her vigilance. Off to her right, ten feet away in the crowd, she glimpsed a man. Damn, it happened so fast. The man vanished back into the crowd before she could get a good look. She moved her head around, trying to find an angle through the crowd. Get out of the way. Please, get out of the way. The man resurfaced. She relaxed, took a deep breath. The young man grinning at his cellphone bore a slight resemblance to Connor, but it was certainly not him. The bench shifted. Her nerves sang, legs and arms jerked of their own accord. She twisted around. It was not Connor either, it was only some fat guy sitting down next to her. The fat guy's eyes lingered on her ugly cheek scar, a memento from Connor. He eventually got over her scar and looked into her eyes. He smiled, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you", he patted his flabby belly, "not exactly sneaking up on anyone with this though." It seldom bothered her anymore when people stared that way. It helped that the fat guy possessed such a warm smile. No matter, she didn't have time to waste looking at him. She resumed scanning necks for the scorpion tattoo. She rubbed her forehead. It felt damp. Damn, she really must be coming down with something, "It's okay," she paused,"Can you do me a favor?" "What kind of favor?" said the fat guy with a suspicious tone. "Can you watch that direction for me?" She pointed to her left without taking her eyes off the crowd. The most adorable little girl with pink laces tied in her blond hair paused in front of her. The pink bow girl gazed up at her in that curious wide eyed expression only an innocent face could form. The little girl's mother pulled on her arm, forcing the child to follow. The little girl stumbled away, her pink laces disappearing into the mass of bodies. The fat guy remained silent for a little while, "Um, okay, what are we looking for exactly?" "The asshole that did this," her jaw tightened. She turned to look at him. She moved her hair back and ran her finger along the length of her scar - all the way up to her ear. She let her hair fall back to cover up most of the scar. "He's out of the pen..and..forget it. Help me look for a scorpion tattoo. A black scorpion with red...." He cut her off, "I saw him about five minutes ago." Her mouth felt bone dry now. Her throat felt even worse, like a yard rake dragging down it. "Where?" His fat face grew thick with guilt. "Right here." He pointed behind the bench. "I..I saw him. I live up there," He pointed to an apartment window above. "He put something into your drink. Oh God, I'm sorry, I thought you knew him...I,..he wrote something on your bottle." She coughed onto the back of her hand. The fat guy's eyes widened with horror at the prolific amount of blood covering her hand. Black spots swirled in her eyes. She slipped off the bench. Knocking over her luggage bag, she slumped onto her knees. She fought to slow the spinning world. Holding onto the bench rail, she steadied herself for a moment. The world spun too fast, too hard. It took its toll. She keeled over onto the sidewalk. "Help me..." she whispered. The fat guy stood up and distanced himself. His pleasant smile gone, replaced by a disgusted look. Another round of coughing battered her so hard her eyes teared up. She sucked to get air in. A frothy substance bubbled out of her mouth. A deep realization rocked her core. God, I'm dying. The sidewalk stopped now with dozens of faces staring in unchecked shock. She begged for help. It came out a horrible gurgle. She begged them with her eyes and outstretched arms. None moved to help her. The world turned turbulent. Faces distorted. She found herself looking up through the wire mesh of the bench at her water bottle. On the side of it, a rough scorpion drawn in black sharpie. The scorpion had four words scrawled next to it - payback is a bitch. She closed her eyes and prayed for a quick end. She had not always done good things. In her short life, She ran with the wrong crowds and crossed paths with the wrong people. She wanted to live. Damn you, Connor. I wanted to live. Her life slipped away... And she thought of the little girl with the pink bow. Focused on the memory of those innocent eyes. Please don't let the scorpion sting anyone else.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Sunnysideup — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 09:14:44 -0600

Eden's Moon Chapter 1 (I'm kind of new to this web site but would appreciate a nice detailed critique to work with) As a native of Alaska, I had never once questioned if there was any place more beautiful than here- if there was anything more tremendous, more wonderous than the bounty of beauty this land provided. The way the snow capped mountains rose above Juneau, Alaska against the Gastineau channel lending it's powerful presence to everything below. It was as if you could reach out and caress the gentle pink sunlit sky or tangle your fingers beneath the thick clouds of fog that brushed up onto shore from the channel. I was happy here. On Sunday morning, my grandfather and I went out on the channel (during summer months) in his 40 footer, just to watch the humpbacks brush the surface of the water, while my mother stayed ashore to keep an eye on our camp. We came back drunk with joy, and with things we found (we caught plenty of halibut and salmon) and with long conversation. We parked our boat and tied off along the shore to enjoy the remainder of our sunlight. I slipped out of my red rubber boots-that were wet and smelled of fish-and sat down near the edge of the water, with my parka pulled close on my shoulders. "You excited birthday girl?" said my mother walking up next to me while I let the cool water brush up against the tips of my toes. I turned to her unexcited. "No matter how old I get, I'll always be smaller than the mountains." I stared out into the still waters, "It's a little depressing actually." And it was. I remember as a child passing through this very shoreline and being so oddly fascinated with a boat, a boat that had been rotting, deteriorating there against the rocks. It's hull was completely exposed, small broken parts being pulled out by the tide. I imagined as a child that at some point, some one had cherished that boat just as I had cherished my grandfathers boat, but for then, it laid slowly fading away from someones memory, as would I as I grew older. Each passing year, portions of me would float away, but the mountains, the channel, the tiny little rocks along the shore would remain always. "You should try and think like a kid for once." chuckled my mother, her almond shaped eyes squinted in the glow of the high sun. She pushed herself to standing, wiping her delicate white fingers on her apron. Secretly, I watched the way the tiny brown freckles danced against the subtle wrinkles on her hands when I wasn't completely listening, or rather when I had untimely remembered how beautiful my mother was. We were nearly identical with the same shapely green eyes and thick, curly red hair that never seemed to lay quite right. We both had a cluster of freckles under our eyelids and just under our snow white cheeks. "Enjoy the now okay?" she knelt down and kissed my forehead. Grandfather was still asleep in his pickup and finally after 24 hours of sunlight, the bright yellow sky was being slowly replaced with its darker opposite. I hadn't slept all day, and my eyes were getting tired. I waved goodbye to the sun and slipped into my sleeping bag, but first peeked over at my grandfather to make sure he had his rifle close by. I loved Alaska, and for the most part I felt safe here, but I knew that Alaska couldn't keep me safe from the carnivorous animals that lived near. We'd heard stories about rare wolf attacks and it scared us all, though we loved our land and all it's wildlife, we didn't much love the possibility of being mauled or eaten. My mother finished dinner and came up to lay next to me while I slowly faded into a peaceful slumber. Even now, as if I was still a child, she'd slowly caress the back of my head, running her fingers through the thick red curls that lay against my sleeping back. I purred ever so slightly and relaxed into the comfort her touch provided. Admittedly, I was my moms girl, as close to her as the edge of the water to the blue gray shoreline. We hadn't been apart since my birth, except when my grandfather and I went out on his boat, but still she was there watching us from there on the bank, no matter how far out we'd traveled. Usually when I was in my pre slumber euphoria, I'd think of my father, the most painful parts that I remembered of him at least-as the most unwanted things tended to make its way to the forefront of my mind during after hours. These thoughts didn't last long though, because like most things, my dad had faded away seasons ago and soon enough, the only thing I could remember we're those last few moments we spent together in Anchorage pitching our tent in Chugach state park. I could still remember that tired look in his eyes, that unearthly scent on his skin. I could still remember the careful way he handled everything as if the world was such a fragile thing. He'd touch me with his cool fingertips and lift me high in the air, so high I thought I'd touch the heavens. But my dad faded away like that old boat on the shoreline. I'd wake up crying in the middle of the night, devastated that my father was never coming back, taunted by the dreams of his having been so near to me in slumber only to wake up to the reality of his death.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 04:51:27 -0600

I'd love it if someone could have a read of my opening and let me know what they think. This is first draft stuff, and whilst the story will develop into a noir sci-fi thriller, I want to spend a while setting the scene and introducing the characters before all the good stuff happens. I know the only way that can work is if that scene setting is *really* good, so, honestly, please let me know if you actually want to read on, 'cos if you don't then I've failed in that aim. Anyway, this is the first 1,000 odd words (a little more so I didn't cut a paragraph in half). Thanks! --- “Observing the world cannot tell you what it is to live in it. To see it through a lens or hear it on a recording is not to experience it. You can collapse taste into chemical reaction, touch into electrical stimulus, thought into the interaction of numberless neurons; but to be there and sense those things – that is different. That sensation realises the world. It defines. “I so longed for that sensation that I took a man's body and killed myself.” Their subject paused there and leant back. They nervously scrawled notes in the margin of their forms. There wasn't really a space for these sort of thoughts, and they didn't have long before the next patient. Recommend immediate detainment for further evaluation in light of charges brought against and evidence submitted. Done. Their subject smiled. *** Six days earlier *** The sky was filthy with the downpour when Stan shuffled quickly back from the smoking shelter. Times like this I wish I’d just gone ahead and quit, he thought as he swiped his ID through the gates. “Really starting to come down now, eh?” the guard said with a smirk. Stan shrugged and half smiled back. “Really coming down” didn’t do it justice. The wind was howling so loudly his ears were ringing; it had taken him six of the eight minutes he’d spent outside just trying to get his cigarette alight. He was soaked to the skin despite the shelter being barely ten yards from reception. A small puddle began to form at his feet. “Look at it this way,” the guard said, “that’s your bi-monthly wash done for you.” “Har bloody har, Francis.” The old IT stereotypes were a long way from dying off. Use of the guard’s full name garnered Stan a dirty look, quickly turning to a frown of consternation as the storm flashed and roared outside. The strip lights dimmed temporarily. “On your way. I’m starting to wonder if we’re ever going to get out of here tonight,” Frank said, foreseeing flash floods and fallen trees blocking his drive home. “You mean you don’t sleep here like the rest of us?” said Stan with mock incredulity. Met with a dismissive snarl and a wave of the hand Stan trudged back to the network room, still dripping. “Could you have taken much longer?” she exclaimed, soaked despite her hood. Her partner ran through the storm toward her, ineffectually guarding two cups of coffee from the rain. “Funnily enough, Sel, rain doesn’t make the espresso brew faster.” “Can’t those fancy eyes of yours order ahead?” DI Hayes knew full well what McCarthy’s retinal implants were capable of doing. It didn’t stop her taking the opportunity to needle him about them at every point, though. She knew he had a chip on his shoulder about them and she couldn’t resist winding him up. Temporarily lost for a suitably withering comeback, James thrust the coffee toward her. Behind them a couple hurried toward a bus shelter, their umbrella blown through. “You know, one of these days I might just use these x-ray eyes to find out if there’s a heart somewhere under that cold exterior.” Rivulets of rainwater down his arm were slowly diluting his coffee. “You go looking under my coat there’ll be trouble, mister.” Selena grinned. “Thanks for the cuppa, James.” “You’re more than welcome,” he replied with excessive formality. She gave him a look and headed back to the car. Another night, another round of tests, thought Stan as he settled back in his chair. On the screens in front of him were diagnostics, status indicators: to the layman incomprehensible diagrammatica, to any admin or sysop as clear as a window directly into the server. Project Archangel had been under test for four months so far. Progress was astounding by the benchmark of Guardian Labs’ previous efforts, but it still seemed to Stan like each test blurred into the last. Prepping the network alone took four to five hours once he’d disconnected the I/O stream and reinstated the firewalls. Teaching a machine to think was one thing, but selecting the curriculum? Just filtering the sites Archangel could access took Jodie all day, although she was a fairly worthless article. He’d swear she spent more time looking at the blacklist than checking new sites, although god knows just how much more interesting the stuff Archangel found was than the sites Mr Ward prescribed. Archangel was quite the step up from Seraph, their baby of four years ago: the breakthrough that got them MoD funding and sarcastic Panopticon security guards. Building on the success of project Angel and then Cherub, Seraph showed real, concrete proof of Guardian’s neural nets, their intelligence amplification application just the tip of the iceberg. But it was this function that the money men were interested in – the promise that a single analyst could take a thousand data streams a minute and identify importance intelligence. The speed of a machine matched to the skill and instinct of a man. A marketer’s dream. Problem was that Seraph was almost too quick – no one could stand to use it for more than an hour before they broke. The flow of information was just too fast, too relentless. Stan likened it to being sprayed with a fire hose. First few seconds it’s a shock; then enlivening, invigorating. After ten minutes it’s a chore; and after an hour you just let it knock you down. Archangel was the logical next step. A knowledge engine, building on the foundations of Seraph combined with a learning algorithm. The idea was originally that the neural network would learn how you thought to help you fetch and analyse data more efficiently, working in parallel with the mind instead of just speeding it up. What Ashby and his team had come up with, though, was nothing short of software DNA, evolving and changing as if constantly in flux. Stan didn’t know how they’d done, and he didn’t want to. Privately he was scared of the damn thing – it seemed like it learnt at an exponential rate. All he knew was that it devoured storage like nothing he’d seen before, like it was caching the whole web for future reference. When they plugged the first test subject in Stan had been there. “Stan,” they said, “keep a close eye on those firewalls. We don’t want any nasties getting it, do we?” No indeed. Try as they might, Archangel seemed destined to pick out the most foetid corners of the internet in its search for knowledge. It was all they could manage to disconnect it the first time they gave it access to the outside world before the sheer volume of malware destroyed the firewalls. After that, “special precautions” were taken; mainly a strict I/O filter and Jodie monitoring every site, for all the good that did. But, in hindsight rather improbably Stan thought, those first tests had gone without incident. Every test since, too. We’re due, thought Stan, the realist in him coming forth. And so they tested, and refined, and tested again.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Arabola — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 05:03:05 -0600

Hi I am new here, only just started my novel writing. I have a first draft of the first chapter. Any critiques / tips / advice etc would be very much appreciated. 1 There was a loud bang on the door. Sam Harding opened her eyes with a start. She felt groggy, like she'd been hit on the head. She felt the back of her head, and her hand came away sticky. Blood. "What the hell has happened?" Another knock on the door. Louder this time. "Hello, sir? Are you ok?" said the voice on the other side of the door. Sam looked around the room. She was sitting in a chair across from a desk. Across from her was the body of a man, face down on the desk. Blood was pooled on the desk and dripping onto the floor. Sam felt her stomach lurch and she stumbled out of the chair. Something heavy slid off her lap and hit the floor with a thud. Looking down she saw a gun. "What the hell has happened here? Why have I got a gun?" "Sir? Are you ok? We're going to break the door down." said the voice, this time sounding more panicked. Sam snatched up the gun and slid across to the door. Standing at the side of the door, she held the gun ready. The room echoed with the bang of someone kicking the door. On the second kick the wood splintered near the lock. Sam took a deep breath to steady her nerves. The third kick broke the lock and the door flew open. Sam grabbed the leg as its momentum carried it through the door. She brought the butt of the gun down on the knee, snapping the bone in half. She swung herself around the doorframe, to face the man coming through the door, and used all her strength to shove him backwards out the door. The man crashed backwards, screaming in agony, and knocked the man behind him onto the floor also. The gun he was holding fell to the floor with a clatter. Sam brought her gun up in front of her and pointed it at the men. "Don't try anything, or I will kill you." She kicked the gun on the floor away from them. "Take out your gun and slide it to me." she said to the second man. With wide eyes the man released the gun from his holster on his belt and slid it towards Sam. "Where am I?" said Sam. The man looked at her in confusion. "What do you mean?" Sam cocked the hammer on the pistol. "What city am I in?" "London." said the man, unable to keep the puzzled look off his face. "What the fuck am I doing in London?" Thought Sam. "Why can't I remember anything?" She bent down and picked up the two pistols, removed the clips and ejected the rounds from the chambers. When she had finished she tucked the clips into her jacket pocket and threw the empty guns back into the room. "Look, I don't expect you to believe me, but I don't remember anything that happened. I just woke up in that room with a dead body, and I don't know why." "He's dead?" said the man. "Yes, he's been shot in the head. I didn't do it. At least I don't remember doing it. Who is he?" "The British Prime Minister." Sam felt her legs go weak and stumbled, she grabbed onto the door frame for support. "I don't understand. What was I doing in there with him?" "I don't know. It was a secret meeting. We were on duty to stop anyone entering." said the man. "Look, you've got to believe me. I don't remember anything. I'm sorry, but I can't stay here." Sam aimed the gun at the man. "No, please!" The man started scrambling away on the floor. "I'm not going to kill you. I just can't have you following me," Sam pulled the trigger. The man howled out in pain, clutching his thigh as he rolled around on the floor. Sam glanced at the other man. He was unconscious. She tucked the gun into her trouser waistband, fastened her suit jacket, and ran down the corridor.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ScottUkabella — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 08:20:07 -0600

Hey everyone. So this is the rough draft of the first chapter of a novel I may or may not be writing. This is all I've written of it so far, just wanted to see what people think. Also, I apologise in advance for f-words and c-words. Chapter One The drunkenness is well upon him now. The place is full of people, the people are drenched in sweat, and the music is so loud he can’t even hear everybody singing along. He questions for a moment if anybody actually is singing along, but then realises that of course they’re singing along. People do that when they’re having fun, and they also do that when they’re douchebags. And the people in this place are definitely a bunch of fun-loving douchebags. It’s the reason Ed came here in the first place. When surrounded by douchebags, he likes to think he looks pretty decent in comparison, like a decent person or whatever. He looks over at a nearby shirtless European dude dancing in the corner on his own, adorned in all manner of glowstick accessories. This guy proves the shit out of Ed’s theory. There is literally a puddle of sweat forming underneath him, and there are streaks of his fake tan staining the top of his pants from all the sweat dripping down. He keeps trying to dance all up next to this one girl, and she keeps giving him disgusted looks whenever he gets too close. She turns to her girlfriends and they all laugh, they’re obviously laughing right at him, then they start rubbing all over each other. And this European guy he smiles and he keeps dancing. And Ed thinks yes, God yes, this is someone who I am not. I am not this person. He drinks the rest of his beer while smiling, which is harder than it sounds, but he does it anyway because Jesus Christ it feels so awesome to not be that guy. Everyone dances but Ed stands. Everywhere he looks, he sees different versions of the same people. They’re all doing different variations of the same dance, which all involve grinding denim cocks against parts of the girl’s lower half. There’s even some guy humping a chick’s leg, kissing her cleavage at the same time. And the worst part is that she seems to be enjoying herself. Detached from all of this, just simply observing, Ed would be sane to say that this room right here is the reason why the world probably deserves to burn. But sane is something he’s never claimed to be, and the truth is he loves it. He fucking loves it, in fact, and his reason for being here is no different from the leg humping guy, or the sweaty European in the corner. He may be better than these people, at least that’s what he likes to think, but they’re all here for the same reason. “Hey,” she says in a loud yell. They’re standing in front of the speaker, so she sounds like she’s a few hundred metres away and there’s a tropical hurricane going on, plus somebody’s playing a Kanye West song full blast. But he understands what she’s saying because really, what else would she be saying? “And hey to you.” Ed replies, smiling in a way which says he’s a fun guy, but not like all these other douchebags. All in all he’s just a nice, decent dude and you know what? You’d have a fun time talking to him, and maybe even a bit more than just talking if you want. And tomorrow you won’t even feel guilty about it. This is what he thinks his smile is saying about himself. She shakes her head, motioning that she can’t hear him. He repeats himself a little louder, and still, she seems to be having trouble. Ed leans down so he’s face to face with her, and he screams, he screams as loud as he possibly can. He screams so loud that his throat feels raw afterwards. And hey to you, is what he screams into her face. And she nods and she smiles. When they’re sitting next to each other and away from the speaker there’s no need for screaming anymore, just very loud yelling. It turns out that she has recruited Ed as her own personal security guard, to protect her from a particular ‘weirdo’ who was dancing too close to her. “He just wouldn’t take a hint, you know, and he kept trying to touch me. It was weird.” She takes another sip of her drink and then glances to her left. This guy who Ed’s supposed to be protecting her from is standing less than a metre from where they’re sitting, thrusting away. He thinks he’s being subtle, like it’s totally cool that Ed’s talking to the girl he wants to fuck, because he only came here to dance and to thrust. “Yeah well, you know, he’s just a guy. Sometimes these things happen,” says Ed, before taking a sip of his ninth beer. “No way, it isn’t normal for him to be doing that,” she says. “What are you gonna do to make him go away?” “Me? I um...well, you know, we could just keep talking I guess. He’ll give up soon.” “I don’t want him to give up soon. He shouldn’t have the choice to just give up. I want him gone, I shouldn’t have to fucking put up with this shit.” “You realise where you are right now, don’t you?” “I came here to have fun and dance with my friends. Not to have some guy touching me when I don’t want to be touched.” She takes Ed’s hand and looks into his eyes. What she says next is that she wants Ed to tell this guy to go away, because Ed’s her boyfriend, and that if this weird fuck keeps bothering her Ed will be forced to just go ahead and cave his face in. Then, in an attempt to make Ed realise that all of this will be worth his while, she leans in and they kiss. Her mouth tastes like an ashtray mixed with a warm lemon Smirnoff Ice. Like if you had little pieces of ash floating around in a Smirnoff Ice that’s been sitting in the sun for a while, and you stick your tongue into it. Kinda like that. It makes him crave a cigarette. After the kiss he looks at her and he knows exactly who she is; she’s the shit stirrer, the girl who wants blood to be spilt in her honour, who finds it chivalrous when a cunt glasses some other cunt in the jaw because she got looked at funny. But at the same time, maybe she’ll have sex with Ed, so there’s somewhat of a dilemma at hand. She’s looking him in the eyes again, the hint of a cheeky grin on her face. She licks her lips in anticipation, like she can almost taste the potential violence. Ed would be lying to himself if he didn’t for one second consider it. He looks up at the guy, who’s still thrusting, and wonders if he could take him. A quick punch, isn’t that how they do it in the movies? Right to the side of the head and he’s down for the count? Maybe he could do it. But what they don’t tell you in the movies is that it takes practice, maybe even years of practice, to learn how to throw a punch which doesn’t break every bone in your hand. And the side of the head? Really? One of the hardest parts of the human body and you want to smash your frail little bony fist into it? Slowly he shakes his head, realising that yeah, maybe this would be a bad idea. “What? Are you serious?” She asks incredulously. “Yeah look, I don’t think I can do this. I’ve only hit a guy once in my life, and I was thirteen and I hit him in the ear by accident. I don’t think you’d be impressed if you saw me in a fight.” “You don’t have to fight him, just threaten to fight him.” She says. “Which will lead into a fight. A fight I’m really not willing to go ahead with. I mean if you wanna make out some more, I’m down for that. I could do that all night. And this guy will see us hooking up and he’ll fuck off to dry-hump some other chick.” “You’re the biggest pussy I’ve ever met.” “Yeah, but I’m a pacifist, I don’t really enjoy the idea of inflicting pain onto other people,” he says, thinking but not saying that it’s him who the pain will be inflicted upon if he goes ahead with any kind of insane plan to start a fight. Needless to say she leaves, no doubt to go rub up on some other dickhead and hopefully provoke a bit of violence out of him. This isn’t one of those stories where you’re supposed to feel bad for the dude because he got rejected for being a ‘nice guy’. She just wanted a certain type of asshole, and unfortunately for Ed he happens to be a different type of asshole. She striked out, it happens, no big deal. He’s in the smoking area now and his friend Chad wanders over. They haven’t seen each other for an hour and a half, because why on Earth would you spend your time in a place like this hanging out with someone you’re friends with? Especially Chad, who Ed has never gotten along with all that well anyway. The two of them have trouble making even the smallest of small talk. Even when Ed’s so drunk he can have a genuinely interesting conversation with the Asian cab driver who only speaks three words of English, even then, Ed finds Chad hard to talk to. Their mutual friend Cameron is the only reason they hang out together, and their mutual friend Cameron always seems to be the one who finds a girl first, so more and more Ed and Chad have found themselves in this awkward situation where there really is just nothing much to say. When Cameron is there it’s all good, because he’s the glue, he fuels the conversation. When Cameron’s there they’re a group, and everyone’s happy. The worst part is that Chad doesn’t even seem to notice any of this. For him a conversation with Ed is just a back and forth that ends quickly and isn’t weird. For Ed, it’s hell on Earth. “Hey,” Chad says, lighting up a cigarette. “What’s up?” “Dude I’ve just been walking from the dancing area, to the smoking area, dancing, smoking, dancing, smoking. And I wasn’t even dancing, just standing there. That’s literally all I’ve done.” “I found a girl. Kissed her too.” “Where is she now?” “Humping some other guy.” “Yeah that’s usually how it goes, right? You gain an inch, they run a fucking mile.” Chad sighs, shakes his head, and takes a drag. Ed does too. And that’s it. That’s the extent of the meaningful things they have to say to one another. “What’s the time?” Ed asks. He’d check the time himself, on the watch he always wears, but he doesn’t want to waste the chance for potential conversation. With Chad, any excuse to say something, no matter how inconsequential, is to be lunged upon. Chad tells him it’s midnight. Ed does not find this interesting or worthy of further discussion. Five minutes later Chad is gone, back to stand around wedged between sweaty dancing men, hoping beyond hope that some girl who doesn’t exist will want him to stick his tongue into her mouth. This leaves Ed to smoke his next cigarette and ponder the odds. He wants to find a girl and he wants to have sex with her. The likelihood of this plan being pulled off successfully all depends on how many girls he's willing to talk to and attempt to hook up with. The first one never goes along with it. From then onwards, the chances get better and better, despite your dignity diminishing at an exponential rate. But who really cares about dignity in a place like this? Dignity is for people who think they’re better than that, and Ed knows full well he isn’t. He likes to think he’s better than the people who surround him, sure, but not better than that. The good news is that at least he’s already found girl number one and has already dealt with the fact that he didn’t get to have sex with her. From here on in, things can only get worse. Until of course they get much, much better.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Brandinian — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 02:55:44 -0600

Hey everyone! This is my first time posting here, though I've been a member for two years. I've been working on this new magical realism novel, and I wanted to get your opinions on the prologue. Thanks! The Last Vaudevillian Prologue His eyes were fixed upon the wax candle that slowly waned within its glass prison. The dance of the flame peppered his imagination with the vision of the vaudevillian showgirls that he’d become familiar with through old silent films and weathered picture books that he’d first found as a boy in his grandfather’s attic. In those days, he fancied himself as something of a treasure hunter, getting lost for what seemed like days in the old world archives of the three story house in Virginia that had belonged to his family for generations. The faint light illuminated his face ever so slightly, conjuring shadows upon his worn features. It was a tired face. The years had not been kind to the man, preferring to grant him hardships over luck and he swallowed his troubles late at night along with the bitter taste of wine. As he let out a sigh, the aroma of the previous sip on his tongue prompted him to reach again for the bottle. Four minutes was far too long a period to wait in between drinks. He poured more of the heavy red into his empty cup and then into his eager belly. His head reeled, as it so often did. It was filled with dreams, hopes, and promises; but also failures, broken hearts, and stories of days long gone. Jacob Kinsley was a faux nostalgic. He was a man who longed for a period of time that he had never even lived in. As he raised the glass to his lips and sipped, he grimaced as the alcohol flirted with his tongue. While Jacob never loved the taste of wine, he liked the air of sophistication that it bestowed upon him. He’d spent the last few months living in a tiny Harlem apartment, hardly staying afloat in a rising ocean of debt that he’d amassed in pursuit of a useless degree in history. While he didn’t wish to live the bohemian life, it was forced upon him by his worsening financial situation. However, by the morning he’d be gone. He’d leave behind the noise, the people, and the troubles of the city; at least for a little while. Jacob’s grandmother was ill. She’d always been a fighter, having survived a string of awful occurrences that included two instances of her house catching on fire (both of which she swore were not her fault), a failed robbery attempt by some men that she’d hustled at Chinese checkers, and an incident in which she was once hit by a horse and buggy while buying an apple pie from the local Amish market. However, it seemed that the grim reaper had finally coaxed her out of her hiding place and would soon come after her with his icy hand. It began with her weight. While she had never been a large woman, Ella Kinsley had been losing weight consistently yet unexplainably over a short period of time. At seventy-six years old, she certainly wasn’t putting in her daily hour of cardio at the gym, and she was comfortable enough in her own skin that “revolutionary” new weight loss diets were of little use to her. However, even if she increased her food intake, the pounds seemed to disappear into the air as if they were evaporating like the year’s first snowfall that was failing to lay on too warm a ground outside of Jacob’s window. Little by little, she began to lose the drive that had made her such a headstrong woman, as if little pieces of her soul were already leaving her body in anticipation of the final journey. Most people upon receiving the news that they have liver cancer choose to dwell on the unfortunate nature of their situation, but not Ella. While the disease sought to destroy her body, she knew that it could never destroy her heart. She resolved to do all that she had not yet in life. Ella chose to spend her remaining time visiting foreign lands, seeing the Northern Lights, taking an airplane ride in first class, and learning to bake the perfect cake (a goal that made her relatives very happy). Above all of this, Ella knitted a quilt. Stitched into this quilt were panels and on the panels were the things that she’d accomplished in life that she was most proud of, the names of those that she loved, and simple things that made her happy like strawberry jam or ribbon candy. She displayed it proudly on her wall, so that when she passed, it would serve as a constant reminder of her love for those she touched. However, recently Ella began to slow down. She was finding it hard to do simple tasks like lifting a gallon of milk or fastening the buttons on her old floral dress. On one occasion she called her daughter weeping over the fact that she’d forgotten that her birthday was the day earlier. Her memory was starting to fade, and she was well aware. When her daughter suggested that perhaps someone should be there to take care of her, she reluctantly agreed. For a woman who at one point in her life had only her pride when her father died and left her penniless, she was hesitant to put make herself vulnerable to anyone else, even if that anyone was blood. Jacob had weighed his options carefully. He had just graduated with his bachelors degree and was as of yet undecided about what to do with his newfound freedom. He had dreams and aspirations, but they all seemed impossible under the weight of his mundane existence. He found himself working long hours to make ends meet, and yet had nothing to show for all of the sweat that he’d put into his labor other than a few paid rent receipts and an empty bank account. When he received the call from his mother informing him of his grandmother’s condition, he was floored. Jacob had escaped childhood without having any of his family members pass away. It seemed that they Kinsleys were blessed not only with good genes, but also the keys to the fountain of youth. His voice seemed lost in the back of his throat as he struggled through the usual questions: Will she be alright? How long does she have? When can I see her? A million questions raced through Jacob’s mind as his mother dutifully did he best to answer. The silent moments in between her fragmented responses and the fight to hold back her tears felt like ages. Jacob couldn’t imagine losing his mother, and his heart ached for her knowing that within the year her own mother would be gone. At she’d be able to spend her last days with a friendly face about. Mortality was something that Jacob had always struggled with. He’d often find himself spacing out, daydreaming about his own death. Now, Jacob had no desire to die. In fact, it was quite possibly the most unpleasant and undesirable thing that he could think of. However, as morbid as it was, he could never stop himself from worrying. Would he die from a heart attack? Would he accidentally trip down a flight of stairs and land somewhere in purgatory? Or, would he die heroically by saving a group of school children from a rabid bear? These questions plagued Jacob’s thoughts. He would get lost in his imagination, eventually blowing his own mind and depressing himself over his inevitable demise. It was the unknown. He couldn’t stand the thought of not knowing what was going to happen to him. Death was supposed to be the greatest journey of all, and Jacob desperately hoped that he’d lose his ticket. He was afraid for himself, and he was frightened for his grandmother. He stood up from the rickety wooden chair and tried to catch his balance. The wine hit him all at once, and he felt the room begin to spin like a carousel. Jacob stumbled back as he struggled to find his footing and make it to his bed. Never before had the simple task of tucking himself in felt like a brutal war between his legs and his coordination. Slowly and yet miraculously he made his way over to the feathered haven where he would drift off into uncharted lands. He closed his eyes and let his body freefall backwards into the cushions, and yet he instead of being met by the warmth and gentle touch of his bed, he was instead greeted with a large THUD as he smacked into the floor. The ground was cold, and he could feel wood beneath his hands. Jacob sat up. His vision was blurred, and yet slowly a new world began to construct itself before his weary eyes. At first, all that he could see was a blinding white light. His heart sank deep down into his chest and felt for a moment that it would stop beating. A million thoughts raced through his head, but they all merged into a harmonious final chorus that screamed,” I am dead.” And yet, as Jacob’s anxiety had made the decisive call that he must be dead, new visions began to replace the light and colored in the washed out world. Before him, he began to see faces. One face became two, two became three, three became six, six became twelve, and so on until there were hundreds of faces staring at him. They were each dressed to the nines in their finest clothes, looking extraordinarily dapper and silently staring at him with their vast sea of eyes. He looked around, greedily gasping at the air to stop himself from hyperventilating. He no longer was in his room. The walls were adorned with gilded sculptures of angels, and ornate trimmings. He felt the hard wood beneath his feet, and looked down at the stage that he was standing on. The audience remained faithfully silent as Jacob drank in his surroundings. The theatre looked as if it had been built by hands that had poured their passion into creating a world where dreams could come true. It was incredible, unlike anything that he’d ever seen, save for in books and films. The spectacle was enough to make him lose complete sight of the hundreds staring at him. The house was lit by fire, giving the faces a warm glow. Slowly, the lights on them began to fade and the ghost light illuminated. Jacob knew that a ghost light was an old theatre tradition and was used to help unsettled spirits find their way around so that they could at very least inhabit the place where they felt most alive; the stage. The light was faint at first, and yet it continued to grow. Jacob could feel the heat of the flame brushing against his face as the fire began to roar. The captivating light seemed to call his name as he moved closer, the embers dancing around his eyes. Gently, he reached out his hand. He moved it closer, and closer until at last the flame was just outside of his grasp. He closed his eyes, took a breath and thrust his hand into it. Jacob bolted awake as a quick sharp stinging pain consumed him. He was back at his desk, with his candle knocked over onto the wooden surface, and a thin layer of wax on his hand. Somewhere between the last sip of wine and his newfound wax battle scar, Jacob figured he had dozed off. He took a moment to recollect his thoughts, picking up the candle and scraping the wax off of his hand. The theatre had seemed so real. The feeling of the stage electrified him and gave him a euphoric feeling that he’d never achieved in his waking life. Once more he stood from his chair. He dragged himself across the floor to his bed, closing his eyes and allowing himself to fall backwards again onto the cushions. This time, he was met with a soft grounding, instead of the wooden floor of the stage. A wave of disappointment splashed over him as he pulled the comforter over his head. The night outside was cold as the snow danced through the air like thousands of ballerinas. As Jacob drifted into slumber, he waited for the ship that would take him into the stars and back to the theatre just once more.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Celticsmc12 — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 21:58:00 -0600

Wow..I don't think I can critique that! Absolutely nothing negative from me! What woke Sammy the next morning wasn't a bang on the door,signalling that their captors were there to take DiNozzo. But for a moment, she wished it was. Screaming, terrified, agonizing screams started her her second week in captivity. Danny's drug induced screams. Sammy shot out of the thin blankets, ignoring the sharp pain in her ribs, and crouched to Danny. He was pale and shivering, cucooned in his blankets. His eyes were shut tightly, and his fists were clenched together. Another nightmare. Sammy felt like puking. Danny was always the strong one,the one who had comforted her, the protector. But her knight in shining standard issue FBI body armor was the one who needed saving,the one sho needed protecting. They had taken Danny and reduced him to this. And she hated them for it. Prolougue. Thoughts?Bear in mind that I'm a first year writer.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bckesler — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 22:02:18 -0600

“Eat your dinner, Gerald.” If he stretched enough he could touch the feet to the ground. It was his favorite dinnertime pastime. Success was always infringed upon by the spit of admonition. The reprimand was for a new offense this time. He eyed the plate with one brow furrowed, the other raised. His lips curled, shiny from saliva. His tongue slithered from its alcove, writhing like a serpent meeting a pungent and revolting predator. “Gerald, I will not have you making naughty faces at the dinner table, now eat up before I get angry.” His stomach palpitated. His face reflected the green of leaves, which may brighten topiaries but makes for a ghastly skin tone. However nauseous he was he couldn’t remove his gaze. Macabre fascination emulated from the sticky cubes of red flesh piled casually in the center of the ivory Royal Copenhagen china. He almost poked at it but tasted fermented acid in the back of his throat and disengaged completely. He looked at her portrait. He started to slouch. The toe of the shoe kissed the marble floor with a secure but silent clack. Rose collected in the cheeks, the green dismissed from duty, and a grin appeared and disappeared as he surveyed the table, making sure the others were preoccupied with the massacred carcass speared on their utensils. They were. A widening half-smile fattened the Elfish cheeks as the buttocks slid to the edge. The shoe was flat on the ground. The cold leeched from the marble to the legs and through the spine. The shoulders did an unsettling rattle and the bicuspids clenched. His eye caught her painting again. It looked like her, with sophistication only glossy strokes of oil can display. The controlled wave of the hair, the snail shell curl at the shoulder; the eyes, green and piercing as a tempest’s; the prominent cheekbones, jagged, mysterious, enticing; the lips, staunch and sexual, glazed with crimson person-paint. It stared at him from the head of the table, behind the stare of its breathing identical twin. The enormity haunted the room in spite of the solid gold, leaf-embroidered frame. She had a thing for leaves. “Gerald, stop slouching at once and eat your dinner.” “I’m not hungry.” “Of course you’re hungry, you haven’t eaten all day.” “What is it, anyway?” “What is what?” He flickered the eyes to the plate and recommenced lopsided brows in response to the gelatinous red staining the Copenhagen. “What do you think it is,” the lips humped as she gnashed and gnawed the chopped rubies. “It’s raw,” he said. “People eat raw meat all the time, my dear, it’s called tartar. It is very healthy for you and I won’t have your ungrateful tongue escape this table without tasting it. I prepared this meal for you and you’ll eat it.” “I like Rebecca’s cooking.” “She is relieved from duty, my dear,” “She’s gone?” Both brows furrowed. “She said she was urgently needed at home and quit immediately. As soon as I can, I will hire a new servant.” “I don’t want just any, I want her.” “Oh, poor dear,” said a new voice. “Mother, don’t pity him,” the portrait’s twin said. “Elizabeth, he’s just a boy,” withered and stringy. “Maids come and go, and that’s life.” Those lips trembled, the wolf ready to pounce. “What kind of meat is this?” His dribble-slobber-curling lip quivered. Blood flowed in little creeks and rivers along the complex ridges, an invisible hand composing a map. “It’s just meat. What the hell is wrong with you? You like meat, you eat it all the time. Now, stop this pestering and do as I say.” “I don’t eat raw meat,” he said (a little too loudly, it seemed, as a slight echo pelted back at them from the darkness of the adjoining hallway). “Elizabeth,” tired, exhausted, “leave the boy alone. I don’t trust this shit any more than he does. It’s bleeding for Christ’s sake.” Glint, flash, crash, ring. The onlookers were mute. He looked to the shatters and warped silver, then to the culprit. Her quivering fingers suggested fear until conjoined with the wide eyes and flared nostrils. She looked like a lioness. “I won’t have this ganging up on me in my own house. If you won’t eat it, mother, than you can starve for all I care, but this is my son and I am his general, not you. Now, damn it, he’s going to eat his dinner if I have to shove it down his nasty little throat.” “I won’t eat it,” he said. “Oh, you think?” Hesitancy. “What is it, even?” “I’ve already told you, it’s meat.” “It doesn’t look like beef, and I know you can’t eat raw chicken or pork, so what is it?” “It’s a special kind of beef,” she said, “your father got a good deal on it in Japan and sent it to us. The freezer is packed full of it and we’ll be eating it for the next few weeks, mister, so you’d better start enjoying it.” He hopped up, shoes clacking marble, ice through the spine, fire in the eyes. “I have not excused you, Gerald,” His hand pulled a laminate handle, the arctic fog shook his straw hair. The eyes frogged, the lips platipussed, the camera-head panned upward then downward. Bags. Blue bags piled on top of one another. Stuffed tightly. Every nook and crevice of the box. Red-purple-green-blue. The second box. More bags. A leak. A stained romaine: Soggy, seaweed, menstruation, thick and heavy. A nearby cupboard. The trash bin. Ice cream, frozen dinners, vegetables. Things he knew were in the freezer that morning, now discarded for this special beef from Japan. Surrender? No way.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bckesler — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 22:03:02 -0600

I apologize for the formatting.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bckesler — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 22:06:19 -0600

Sorry to post this again, but this formatting should be better. “Eat your dinner, Gerald.” If he stretched enough he could touch the feet to the ground. It was his favorite dinnertime pastime. Success was always infringed upon by the spit of admonition. The reprimand was for a new offense this time. He eyed the plate with one brow furrowed, the other raised. His lips curled, shiny from saliva. His tongue slithered from its alcove, writhing like a serpent meeting a pungent and revolting predator. “Gerald, I will not have you making naughty faces at the dinner table, now eat up before I get angry.” His stomach palpitated. His face reflected the green of leaves, which may brighten topiaries but makes for a ghastly skin tone. However nauseous he was he couldn’t remove his gaze. Macabre fascination emulated from the sticky cubes of red flesh piled casually in the center of the ivory Royal Copenhagen china. He almost poked at it but tasted fermented acid in the back of his throat and disengaged completely. He looked at her portrait. He started to slouch. The toe of the shoe kissed the marble floor with a secure but silent clack. Rose collected in the cheeks, the green dismissed from duty, and a grin appeared and disappeared as he surveyed the table, making sure the others were preoccupied with the massacred carcass speared on their utensils. They were. A widening half-smile fattened the Elfish cheeks as the buttocks slid to the edge. The shoe was flat on the ground. The cold leeched from the marble to the legs and through the spine. The shoulders did an unsettling rattle and the bicuspids clenched. His eye caught her painting again. It looked like her, with sophistication only glossy strokes of oil can display. The controlled wave of the hair, the snail shell curl at the shoulder; the eyes, green and piercing as a tempest’s; the prominent cheekbones, jagged, mysterious, enticing; the lips, staunch and sexual, glazed with crimson person-paint. It stared at him from the head of the table, behind the stare of its breathing identical twin. The enormity haunted the room in spite of the solid gold, leaf-embroidered frame. She had a thing for leaves. “Gerald, stop slouching at once and eat your dinner.” “I’m not hungry.” “Of course you’re hungry, you haven’t eaten all day.” “What is it, anyway?” “What is what?” He flickered the eyes to the plate and recommenced lopsided brows in response to the gelatinous red staining the Copenhagen. “What do you think it is,” the lips humped as she gnashed and gnawed the chopped rubies. “It’s raw,” he said. “People eat raw meat all the time, my dear, it’s called tartar. It is very healthy for you and I won’t have your ungrateful tongue escape this table without tasting it. I prepared this meal for you and you’ll eat it.” “I like Rebecca’s cooking.” “She is relieved from duty, my dear,” “She’s gone?” Both brows furrowed. “She said she was urgently needed at home and quit immediately. As soon as I can, I will hire a new servant.” “I don’t want just any, I want her.” “Oh, poor dear,” said a new voice. “Mother, don’t pity him,” the portrait’s twin said. “Elizabeth, he’s just a boy,” withered and stringy. “Maids come and go, and that’s life.” Those lips trembled, the wolf ready to pounce. “What kind of meat is this?” His dribble-slobber-curling lip quivered. Blood flowed in little creeks and rivers along the complex ridges, an invisible hand composing a map. “It’s just meat. What the hell is wrong with you? You like meat, you eat it all the time. Now, stop this pestering and do as I say.” “I don’t eat raw meat,” he said (a little too loudly, it seemed, as a slight echo pelted back at them from the darkness of the adjoining hallway). “Elizabeth,” tired, exhausted, “leave the boy alone. I don’t trust this shit any more than he does. It’s bleeding for Christ’s sake.” Glint, flash, crash, ring. The onlookers were mute. He looked to the shatters and warped silver, then to the culprit. Her quivering fingers suggested fear until conjoined with the wide eyes and flared nostrils. She looked like a lioness. “I won’t have this ganging up on me in my own house. If you won’t eat it, mother, than you can starve for all I care, but this is my son and I am his general, not you. Now, damn it, he’s going to eat his dinner if I have to shove it down his nasty little throat.” “I won’t eat it,” he said. “Oh, you think?” Hesitancy. “What is it, even?” “I’ve already told you, it’s meat.” “It doesn’t look like beef, and I know you can’t eat raw chicken or pork, so what is it?” “It’s a special kind of beef,” she said, “your father got a good deal on it in Japan and sent it to us. The freezer is packed full of it and we’ll be eating it for the next few weeks, mister, so you’d better start enjoying it.” He hopped up, shoes clacking marble, ice through the spine, fire in the eyes. “I have not excused you, Gerald,” His hand pulled a laminate handle, the arctic fog shook his straw hair. The eyes frogged, the lips platipussed, the camera-head panned upward then downward. Bags. Blue bags piled on top of one another. Stuffed tightly. Every nook and crevice of the box. Red-purple-green-blue. The second box. More bags. A leak. A stained romaine: Soggy, seaweed, menstruation, thick and heavy. A nearby cupboard. The trash bin. Ice cream, frozen dinners, vegetables. Things he knew were in the freezer that morning, now discarded for this special beef from Japan. Surrender? No way.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Transcendent — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 09:57:42 -0600

/...Any jobber got the sack; Monday morning, turning back; Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go-/ Daniel Blum groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, the Beatles song ringing through his room like a siren. "Alright!" He called, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I'm up!" The song promptly stopped as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and stretched. "Must-Do list for this week?" "Monday: Begin Outline on Term Paper," a cool feminine voice intoned. Dan groaned as he stumbled to the bathroom. "Tuesday: Play at the Mooncalf Cafe with Zippy." As it continued, Dan turned on the shower and stripped, checking the temperature just as the Assistant finished, "Sunday: Day of Rest." "And thank God for it." Dan muttered as he stepped into the hot water, hissing as it slammed against his feet. "Note to self," he said loudly. "Get new blanket." "Note taken." The apartment replied. As he wet down his hair, Dan said, "Umm... Bring up v-mails, and make a cup of coffee in... let's say eleven minutes. Extra cream, extra sugar." The touchscreen installed into the wall in front of him turned on, shifted through apps before settling on v-mails, and then the face of Zipporah Wisely appeared before him, purple hair tied back and makeup noticeably absent. He grinned at the screen as the recorded message played. "Hey Dan, just making sure you remembered our gig tomorrow, and reminding you that that doesn't mean you don't have to work on your paper. As thrilling as the life of a penniless artist is, remember: You're basically living an all-expense paid, independent life with free food." He laughed as he started massaging the shampoo into his hair. "Also.... Balthazar was calling. Says he's in the area." He froze. "Look, I know you two are still on the outs, but at least try to talk to him. For me?" "Would you like to reply?" The automated voice asked. Dan shook his head as he rinsed the lather from his hair. "No. Next v-mail." "Dan... it's me." Dan's head snapped up to stare at the screen. /Impossible... He hates technology... He'd never-/ "I don't even know if this is working, but..." Dan peered at the screen. The man he'd known several years ago was barely recognizable. His brown hair was longer and unkempt, his face was adorned with what looked like several days of stubble and several scars, and he had a worried, tired look about him. He seemed to be at a public messaging station. He'd sent it at night, so Dan could only see dim shapes behind him, but every so often a car would pass, its headlights brightening the dark background. "You're probably a bit skeptical," the man said dryly. "Given that I would rather have a nuclear warhead shoved directly into my eyeball than poke one of these blasted things with a four foot pole. Let's see..." He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around quickly. "My name is Balthazar Freeman. I'm from Wales. I can't stand anything invented after the year 2000... And when you were nine, you killed your first mountain troll with one of the more impressive fireballs I've seen produced by a child." He sighed. "I hope that's enough, Dan. Because this is important." "I know we parted on bad terms. After what happened to..." Balthazar pressed his lips together and Dan almost turned the message off. Almost. But curiosity and lingering affection made him hesitate, and Balthazar continued. "After what happened. But this is no time for old grudges. Something's coming. Something bad. And I need a safe place to stay to figure it out." He stopped suddenly and looked down the street, tense. Dan frowned and tried to listen, to see if he could hear what Balthazar had heard. The man turned back to camera, speaking quickly. "I don't have a lot of time. Our old safehouses are no longer reliable. Something's hunting down the Seelie Court, and while we haven't heard anything from the Unseelie Court, there's evidence that they're being attacked too. We don't know by who or what." Dan felt himself go cold despite the hot water still pouring down on him. /Who... How...?/ "I can explain more later, but... I need to be able to stay at your place. I know where you are, but it took me awhile to find you, which is promising." He smirked slightly. "You're a decent hider, Dan. One mistake. Drivers license." Dan smacked his palm against his forehead. Picture, fingerprints, info... Damn, that was a stupid move. "I'd criticize, but this might be the only hope I have." Balthazar looked down the road against, snarling something under his teeth, something in Old Welsh. He turned back to the camera. "I'll be at your apartment at witching hour tomorrow. It's..." He glanced at his watch. "April 27th, 2:26 a.m. Please be there, Dan." The v-mail ended abruptly, leaving Dan feeling rather small and utterly confused. He rubbed his hand against his face, trying to think. "Um... coffee?" He asked, at a loss for anything else. "Ready." He got out of the shower and dried off, his thoughts attempting to settle into some understandable stream. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts were very old, very tough, and very powerful. The idea of something hunting members of either Court was absurd. Dan had been Balthazar's apprentice from the ages of seven and eighteen, and he'd seen far too many things that made it abundantly clear that attacking a Seelie or Unseelie, honorably or dishonorably, was a Very Bad Idea. Yet now they were being hunted? To the point that Balthazar was worried? Dan wrapped the towel around his waist and stumbled into the kitchen, mussing his hair violently. Balthazar was a difficult person to worry. Chosen by the Seelie Court to act as a connection to the modern, outside world, he'd been alive long enough to literally see it all. Dan recalled occasions where he'd off-handedly mentioned a conversation with Merlin. Merlin for god's sake! Yet now he was practically begging to use Dan's apartment and jumping at sounds in the dark? The coffee was still steaming when he lifted it out of its alcove and leaned against the counter, sipping it idly. "This might be bad..." he muttered. A small, child-like laugh echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment. "Sweetie, you have no idea."

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Fri, 17 Feb 2012 09:28:48 -0600

First 1000 words of Chapter 1. There is a prologue as well, but it's ghastly and will need to be rewritten when the book is done (1st draft is about 2/3 finished at this point). -------------------- “Another round, please,” Elena said to the bartender. The man’s expression did not change, but she thought he looked at her a moment longer than necessary. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him. She knew what he was thinking; she was thinking it herself: They’ve had too much to drink already. She turned away from the bar to watch her friend Jessica, one red head in a room full of rowdy, cheerful strangers. The pub was a nice place - Jess had checked it out beforehand, and Elena thought the percentage of local clientele bore out her friend's research. It was well-lit but warm and intimate, everything done in dark wood and green copper, elegant without being ostentatious. She thought the rail she was leaning on, made of some kind of fine-grained dark wood, had been hand-turned. Jessica, in one corner, hooted with laughter at something one of the many men around her had said. She lifted her glass in the air, and Elena saw some of its contents slop over the side to spill on the polished tabletop. She glanced back at the bartender, who remained tactfully expressionless. She did not think this lovely place would be in such good shape if this was a typical night. The locals, of course, had come out in force when Galileo had taken up orbit. Elena realized she had been foolish not to figure out what would happen. Omicron was a well-populated colony - there were nearly two thousand in Port City alone - but there was nothing like new blood. The very thing that had brought Jessica, not shy at the worst of times, away from her numerous shipboard admirers, had brought the local men and women to bars like this one. They knew we’d be here, Elena thought irritably. And they’re hunting us like wildebeest. Which was, she decided, an uncharitable thought. Her plight was her own fault. It had been foolish of her in the first place to promise Jessica she’d come. It had been more foolish of her not to just put her foot down the other day, after tentatively broaching the idea of forgetting the whole thing. But Jessica had flown off the handle. “You have been annoying and irritable for two months!” she had shouted. In the engine room, no less, and in front of Elena’s crew. “Enough is enough, Lanie. You promised me, and you are coming with me, and you are going to find some cute local boy to remind you of why you shouldn’t be so damn choosy.” Elena let her eyes wander over the crowd. She had never thought of herself as choosy. But she found herself thinking, somewhat resentfully, that wanting someone sober was not the same as being choosy. As handsome as these boys were - and odds were, with this many, some of them were nice as well - they were so inebriated they had become generic. She had heard the same set of pick-up lines over and over, had been asked a dozen times why she wasn’t drinking, had gently and politely steered anyone showing too much of an interest back in Jess’ direction. In a sober crowd, word would have gone around that she wasn’t persuadable, and she would have been left alone. This crowd, though, was too drunk to hear itself think. She glanced surreptitiously at her watch: 23:30. Hopelessly early. Jess would never let her live it down if she bolted before midnight. Elena had thought to find a hotel, someplace quiet, and get a good night’s sleep for once. Now, as she surveyed the lurching, swaying crowd from the periphery, she wondered if she shouldn’t just borrow a shuttle and fly home. She had almost resolved to plead her case with the spaceport’s dispatcher when she heard a step behind her. She closed her eyes, mustered a polite smile, and turned. He was taller than she was, at least, with straw-yellow hair and what was indisputably a very nice smile. He was also nominally her age, which was a pleasant surprise - Jess favored younger men, and had a hard time understanding why Elena did not. This one had light brown eyes and a square jaw, and bore a heart-wrenching resemblance to Danny. Damn Jessica; she was so sensitive about other issues. “Can I help you with the drinks?” he asked. He had a nice voice, a little dark and grainy, with that odd broad accent they spoke with here. He was handsome, friendly, not entirely pie-eyed - and he left her cold. As she looked at him, thinking of what to say, she realized that there was no way she was going home with anybody at all that night. The regret in the smile she gave him was genuine. “You’re very kind,” she said, willing any sarcasm out of her voice. “Actually, you can take them back to the table for me. I’m not staying.” This news took a moment to penetrate, and when it did she was relieved to see his disappointment was not acute. “You sure?” he said, still genial, still easygoing. “Your friend, there, she seems to think you could use some fun. Doesn’t have to, you know, be anything.” She felt a wave of gratitude. He was nice, this one. Under different circumstances, with more time...he would still look like Danny, she reminded herself. “My friend,” she told him, “has a good heart and a deaf ear. If you think of it, please tell her to enjoy herself without being concerned for me.” He nodded, flashing her that nice smile again. “If you change your mind,” he said, reaching around her for the tray of drinks, “you know where we’re sitting. And you’re welcome any time.” “Thank you,” she said, and watched him walk off. Across the room Jessica glared at her, shaking her head. Elena scowled and turned away. The boy she would be nice to. Jessica…Jessica would be screaming at her tomorrow, no matter what Elena did now. She wasn’t going to hide the fact that all she wanted was to go home.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

DeaMaxwell — Wed, 29 Feb 2012 19:07:30 -0600

Not chronologically the first chapter, but the first I wrote. --- The first thing Mina learns about Harley Bancroft is, she listens to music all the time. Literally all the time. Mina has yet to encounter her in silence. It's kind of weird. Even if there's a meeting in her office, she never turns the music off, just down really low so it's more white noise than actual music. And her taste is crazy. Intense and eclectic and completely nuts. Her collection is constantly on shuffle, and it's just the weirdest thing Mina has ever experienced, to go from Black Sabbath to the Aladdin soundtrack to Korean pop, and Harley just sits there, tapping her foot and nodding her head and writing. It's weird. She never mentions it, though, and neither does anyone else - at least, not in Harley's earshot, and seeing as Mina has essentially been surgically attached to Harley at the hip since she started working, not in her earshot, either. *** One day, everything goes wrong. Mina gets in later than usual, and when she reaches the hallway leading to Harley's office, she turns and immediately heads somewhere else at the sound of Holst's Mars, Bringer Of War and the sight of closed blinds. Harley very rarely plays anything classical, she's learnt, and it always means something when she does, so Mina resolves to come back later, when she's playing something less angry. She spares a sympathetic smile for Pip, Harley's administrative assistant, as she leaves, and he gives her a shrug that says, 'what can you do?' It doesn't really sink in just how bad things are until she's coming back from her lunch break, though, and she stops in the stairwell at the strains of Chopin's Funeral March, and thinks, Oh, hell. She picks up her pace a little, only to falter, trip over her own feet when the piece ends and then ticks over and begins again, because for as long as she's been working with Harley, she's never even so much as heard the same song twice in a day, let alone consecutively. The music gets louder and louder the closer to the office she gets, and when she arrives, the blinds are open, and Harley is sitting on the expensive leather couch with her head in her hands. What really throws Mina, though, is that she's completely still. She stops beside Pip's desk for a minute and just watches, stares really, because Harley is never still. Not ever. It's disconcerting in the extreme, and Mina thinks briefly she'd do anything to never see her boss like this again, so she walks over to the big glass door and knocks, twice, pushing the door open a little and sticking her head into the office. "Boss?" Harley's head jerks up, suddenly, and she looks at Mina, but not really at her, she can tell. It's a thousand-yard stare if she's ever seen one, and it's a long minute before Harley's gaze focuses enough that Mina believes she'll actually hear her if she talks. "Boss?" she says again, voice soft. Harley clenches and unclenches her hands slowly, looking down at them, and then finally says, "It's my mum," barely audible over the crashing piano of Chopin's prelude. Mina can make a fair guess at what she means, but she waits for verbal clarification. It's not a long wait. "A car crash. Snapped her neck, didn't feel a thing." Mina is so spectacularly unprepared to deal with this sort of thing, and a panicked look at Pip, who's now hovering between his desk and the office, reveals he's thinking along the same lines. So Mina takes a second to think, what sort of thing is there to say to that? "Does Olivia know?" is what she settles on. "Oh, Christ, no," Harley breathes, and reaches out a shaking hand for the phone on the coffee table. Her hands are shaking too badly for her to do anything with it, though, so Mina steps into the room fully, takes the phone and flicks through Harley's contacts until she finds the ex-husband's number, and starts the call. She holds the phone up to her boss' ear and does her best to pretend she can't hear the whole damn conversation. "Harl?" "I need Liv." "What?" "I need Liv, here with me. Please, Danny." "Harley? Harley, what's happened?" "It's mum, Dan. Please, just bring Liv over." "Oh, fuck, Harl, I'm so sorry." "Dan! Just bring Liv. Explain it to her." "I-- Yeah, yeah, alright. You at the office? We'll be fifteen minutes. Christ. Fifteen minutes. I am so sorry, Harley." "Yeah," Harley says finally, and Mina ends the call and puts the phone back on the table, then gets up and wanders over to the stereo system to turn the music down. When Harley looks at her quizzically, she smiles gently and tells her, "I could hear it in the stairwell." "Oh. Sorry." "Yeah, well, I had the good sense to stay well shot while you were playing Holst. How many mugs did you break?" she asks, moving the subject on swiftly, because not only is this the first time she's heard her boss say 'please' to anyone, let alone twice in the space of thirty seconds, it's the first time she's ever heard her apologise to anyone, too. There's surreal and then there's surreal, and Mina needs to get back on solid ground. "Just the one. I cleared it up." Mina grins briefly, then turns to leave, when Harley clears her throat and says roughly, at length, "Thanks, Mina." Mina stares at her for a minute, thrown yet again, then manages, "Yeah, of course. I'll just go let security know to let Dan up straight away, yeah?" And then she flees with all the dignity she can muster. Surreal.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Evangaline656 — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 15:26:30 -0600

Hmm. I'll post my first chapter. It's a little bit more than 1000 words, but only by a hundred. No one has the critique the whole thing. ___ Gold Hill, Colorado. I had lived there in that little town my whole life. It is really a simple place, even when we were going through the Great Depression. That is all over now, thank goodness. America is stronger than it ever was before because of it. It’s November here, and everyone is getting ready for Thanksgiving. That to be one of my fa-vorite times of year. Moreover, this year would be especially special, because we have more food than we have had in a long time. Everyone had been storing the non-perishable foods in their pan-tries since summer. My Thanksgiving present to everyone was going to be a huge picture of the whole town, drawn by myself, of course. I have always loved to draw. In addition, I was sure that Mayor Klein would frame it and hang the picture up in the Town Hall, for everyone to see. Gold Hill only had two hundred and fifty seven people that lived there, so my drawing was al-ready almost finished. I just needed to add a few more townspeople, and I would set to wrapping it. I was saving Clarence for last, because he was so fun to draw. A handsome one, he was, and I always enjoyed putting his face on paper. Clarence was the Mayor’s son. He had almost everything he wanted. The Klein family had the best clothes out of all of us here. Clarence was specially fitted in a brown plaid suit that most city boys would die to have. If they even cared about clothes, that is. I supposed that Clarence just wore it to impress the women, as if his blue eyes and blonde combed hair were not enough. I just wore a plain, brown skirt, with another plain, white blouse tucked in. We could not really afford anything fancier for me to wear, even after the Depression ended. I did not mind, though. I was glad I did not have to wear anything fancier than my work clothes, because most often I could be found with the boys of the town, swimming in lakes and hiking up to Rocky Peak. I was a tomboy, for sure. A couple of the girls in the village, like Betty Beggs, hated me for it. It was not lady-like to be rolling around in mud, or so I had heard. Nevertheless, I did not really let them get to me. I much preferred this life, rather than sitting at home and having tea parties like the rest of the girls did. My mother had often warned me about my ways, and had tried so hard to make me a civilized girl, but it never worked. I was wild at heart, just as my red hair was wild amongst all of its curls and waves. I did not know where I got my red curls. My mother had blond hair, and my father, brown. I al-ways guessed that somewhere back in the family line, I had a great-aunt or someone who had hair as wild as mine. Most girls during that time had always wanted to cut their hair short, get it permed, and then walk around peachy dandy and pick up boys at every corner. I did not like the short little hairstyles, though, even if they were in style. I always liked feeling my hair on my neck, and I hated even putting it up. The boys here were nothing to boast. Excluding Clarence, the boys at Gold Hill were not spe-cial. They were not celebrities, but neither was I, so I did not mind. I was not picking up boys at every corner as Betty was, except for Clarence Klein. I tried so hard to get Clarence to like me, but he had always preferred Betty. In fact, I had always assumed that Betty and Clarence were dating. No one had ever told me otherwise, so that was how I spent my teenage years, wondering when Clarence would notice me, instead of Betty. That was my focus until I was fifteen, when I started becoming too busy with school and work to worry about Clarence. Even then, as far as I could tell, Betty and Clarence were still dating. They were inseparable. I commented about this to my friend Lawrence Hills one evening, as we were sitting down and dangling our legs from Rocky Peak. My friend was a brute of a sixteen year old. His brown hair framed his square jaw and brown eyes. My father once said he resembled a lion with all of his mus-cles. I laughed at him. “Lawrence,” I began, off in wonderland. “Do you think Betty and Clarence are ever going to break up?” Lawrence and I had been friends for ages. We had grown up together, and we were practically inseparable ourselves. Except, of course, we were not dating. “Now, why would you ask a boy that?” Lawrence responded, after some thought. He did not wait long for answering, but I knew he gave it some thought. Lawrence always gave thought to things. My mother said that I should be like him and think more. I said no, without thinking. Then I was sent to my room. “Oh, I don’t know. Just thought I’d ask.” “Alright, Beaver…” Lawrence said. I knew that he was thinking about trying to figure me out. However, he never could. I often teased him about it, too. No one could figure me out. Virginia Beverly Andrews. Beaver was my nickname. My parents called me Virginia Beverly, but everyone else called me Beaver. It suited me better, too, I thought. It was not all proper and such like the other names. I would hate being called Virginia. Of all the things that I was yelled at, it just would not sound right. “Virginia Beverly, get out of that lake!” I could hear my mother say. “Virginia Beverly, stop roll-ing around in that mud!” Beaver had such a better ring to it. Especially when it was used in that way. My mother’s real voice had snapped me out of my daydreaming. I almost face planted on top of my drawing that I was working so hard on. “Virginia Beverly, will you get down here? You need to eat before you go to work.” “I’m coming, Mother!” I yelled downstairs, gathering up my papers and piling them on my desk. It was a wreck, but I shrugged it off. I would get to cleaning it later. Perhaps in five years, but it would definitely happen. I almost fell down the stairs on the way. Me being myself, I always tried to beat my record of running down the stairs. I could currently do it in three seconds. I was aiming for two. There had been several accidents that happened on those stairs, but that never deterred me from accomplishing my goals, as silly as they were.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Alerane — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 09:48:01 -0600

[ Sooooo my prologue is a lot longer than 1000 words, but here is the first thousand. ] Cries, screams and arguing is what I heard from outside the room they had put us. We were all silent, save a few sniffles from Ernie, because we were listening. I watched the doorway, seeing adults rushing by, some with guns, others with baggage and even more with wheelie beds with screaming people on top. In the din of voices other sounds that go unnoticed, like a set of footsteps pausing, a muttering voice or the squeak of the wheels bumping over something in the way on the floor somewhere. Most of us looked hopefully for someone to come for us. Someone to take us home from this nightmare. I did not. I sat there numb. I knew no one was coming for me. I saw the two of them in the car beside us, and even waved before the light changed and they went into the intersection. I’d have done more than waved if I had known then. There was a woman seated at the door, with a desk out in front of her, and various stacks of paper work in an array around her desk. She was a bit on the plump side, wore square glasses and had curly brown hair like my dolly back home. Right now she’s in my bedcovers where I tucked her in before school. There was someone else who couldn’t come get me, but at least she was away from the shouting here. Shouting makes her sad. Every now and then someone from the hallway actually came into our little room, and the woman would stop them and they would talk back and forth. Once it was a man dressed up in a uniform with a big gun hanging from a strap around his neck and shoulder. He asked some things without his face changing once and then left, marching like soldiers did on TV. More often there were men and women running in, looking like they dressed in a hurry or ran here from work. They were parents. You could tell by how they looked past the woman and the desk immediately and shouted out one of my classmates names. Usually the kid would shout back, smile, run to them. In Ernie’s case he started bawling, which was gross because he was right next to me and I got boogers on my sleeve. So as the parents came, they spoke with the woman at the door, and she busied herself with searching through the scattered papers and plucked out the one she needed. Then she’d call out one of our names, though never mine, and the child would get to leave with their mum or dad, or both depending who came. No one waved bye to us as they left, but I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t have wanted to look back if I was getting out either. There were less and less of us, about 5 left, when a police officer I recognized from the street before walked in. He spoke with the woman in hushed tones, and she nodded and went through the papers and then with a stricken look plucked up a paper. She then peered over her glasses and looked directly at me. It was only a moment because she surely saw me staring right back at her, but I could tell the look in them from that. Pity. I now knew what the officer came to say as the woman whispered back to him as he looked my way as well with a similar look. He then straightened up and said one more thing before hurrying out once more. The curly haired woman looked down at her desk, refusing to meet my eyes again. The rest of the kids got to leave, wandering out as their guardians showed up. Already with the excuses on their lips as to why they were late when they reached the desk. A few the kids looked very used to this. Maybe I would have felt bad for them had I been in different shoes at the time. Sitting there on my wooden chair, the room seemed bigger now that it was only I and the woman at the door occupying it. She still hadn’t looked up at me and was drumming her fingers on her desk nervously, the one paper left on it my own. Finally after a long silence, she stood, and started to walk around the desk, seeming to be coming in my direction when someone else walked in the door. The curly haired woman turned, not having expected anyone else it seemed, to meet the newcomer’s extended hand. The new woman was very tall, even more so because of her black high heels. She wore a dress suit under a white lab coat. She had glasses as well, but hers’ had no frames, just looked like glass floating between some sticks, and she had straight blonde hair. Her very red lips were fit into a small polite smile. They shook hands, and she introduced herself. The curly haired woman began to say something, but was cut short as the blonde woman reached over to the now unattended desk and snatched up the remaining paper lying there. The woman protested this with a bit of panic in her voice, but stopped short as the new woman gestured towards me inquiringly. The voices dropped into hushed tones once more, her eyes going to the ground as she explains my tale. I caught one word of the blonde woman’s reply. ‘Tragic’. It would be more convincing if her expression had faltered at such a thing. Instead it remained in its perfect and painted smile. She spoke a bit more, then reached into her pocket and flashed a card which looked important because it made the curly haired lady pale. The lady in the lab coat took this opportunity to stride past her, and over to me. Crouching in front of me in my chair so we could see eye to eye, she flashed me a bright flawlessly white smile. I realized then I was expecting there be fangs protruding between those perfect lips. I had no reason to think it, but it had just seemed right. More right than this Barbie level look. That was exactly what she looked like actually. A plastic smiling Barbie doll, Dr. Barbie even with her perfect lab coat and suit, complete with the skirt. I inched myself further back against the frame of the chair.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 05:32:29 -0600

Running had become Tomasso’s replacement for sleep, but tonight it was his opium, and, like opium, it did nothing to numb him. His breathing was fast and laboured. Tree trunks surrounded him like black pillars the darkness. From somewhere in the tree tops, a nocturnal bird sounded its warning cry, reminding him that he didn’t belong. Suddenly the terrain dropped. For the time of a skipped heartbeat there was a nothing where he expected there to be ground. Then, a sharp pain shot through his right ankle. Letting out a groan, he stumbled forward, down a slope. Each step sent new jolts of pain through his ragged leg, but it didn’t matter. His ankle would be heeled soon enough. Like mockery. Feeling close to vomiting with exertion, he increased the pace. His heart was beating near explosion. Blood -- ripping through his arteries like bullets -- filled his mouth with a ferrous taste that evoked memories of gore. Before he could stop them, images of dead bodies filled his mind. Shot, stabbed, murdered, they lay, scattered across his blood-flooded memory lane. As always, in those dark neighbourhoods, Lui found him -- gun in his hand, face spattered with lives of those around him. One day you’ll find me again, Tomasso thought. But it won’t be here. . . Not near Mondrone. A lump formed in his throat at the thought of leaving the village; his emotions were trying to suffocate him. Even though he had known that his stay could only be temporary, and even though he had braced himself for this moment since the sleepless nights began, taking the decision had torn up an abyss within him, so hopeless and deep that it was vertiginous. He would have done anything to be able to stay, and, one day, get buried in Mondrone, but it didn’t matter what he wanted. It was impossible. Everyone had already turned suspicious, and all he could do was run. Like a bolting horse, he continued forward, his nostrils flaring as he struggled to get enough oxygen. His blue eyes were burning with sweat and imprisoned tears. He tried to stifle the emotions, but in vain. His face twisted in anguish, but he kept running. He kept going until, finally, his legs buckled underneath him, and he fell headlong to the forest floor. There, somewhere south of Mondrone, away from human ears, he broke down and cried. He mourned for his wife and their unborn child; for his best friend, who he had buried in the desert sand, and for Cornelia, the beautiful Italian woman who he would leave behind in Mondrone. He shed tears of regret and of hopelessness, and his shoulders shook with sobs so heavy that he thought they would never abate. It wasn’t until dawn came, and tickled his lithe body, that his sobs finally ebbed out. By then Tomasso was so weary that he yawned amidst a trembling snivel. The effect was so comical that he had to laugh at himself. He took a few deep breaths, and rose from the ground. His mind was still -- at last. The morning mist, that was so common in the region during autumn, embosomed the forest. In the distance, Tomasso could hear the sounds of Stura di Ala; the forceful river that ran close to the village. He plodded towards it. The closer he got the thicker the mist became, and the thinner the forest. To keep his resolve, he began to repeat his agenda for what would be his last day in the village. First he would get all of his things ready, leave everything tidy and easy to handle for Cornelia; most likely the one who would go through his personal belongings. Then he would see his friends off, without letting them know it was goodbye, and then he would— Huh? Something crashed into Tomasso’s legs with a dull impact. Shaking himself from his thoughts, he looked down, and ended up starring into a pair of green eyes. They belonged to a young girl, dressed in an ankle-length nightgown, with a fair, rosy complexion, tousled brown hair, and an apologetic look to her sweet face. Tomasso had never seen the child before, and she didn’t look particularly Italian. “Ciao,” he said, and smiled, flabbergasted. “Um . . . sorry,” said the girl in English, and ran off. Tomasso stood still for a moment, watched her back disappear in the veiling mist, frowned and drew a hand through his black hair, wondering to himself what a child was doing alone in the forest so early in the morning. Then, just as suddenly as the girl had run into him, he felt a pang of alarm in his stomach. The river! Switching into English, he shouted after the girl to wait, and forced his overexerted body into action. When he reached the riverbank, he saw her jumping between two big stones by the water line. He evaluated the situation quickly. The girl was heavily absorbed in her game. The water around her looked rather calm to the eye, but judging from the clamorous rapid only five meters downstream it was likely to be stream. One misstep would turn her playground into a death-trap. Afraid to startle her by calling, Tomasso moved forward with quick steps, waving his arms to get her attention. Still unaware of his presence, the child took another leap. Tomasso’s lungs froze mid breath, but she had aimed perfectly and landed as gracefully as a river elf on the next rock. Another jump – perfect aim, but as soon as her feet met the stone it wiggled, and the girl fell into the water with a shriek. Tomasso rushed forward, and plunged himself into the river. A current pulled him down immediately, flushed him forward as if he was nothing but a grain of sand. It was a struggle to get to the surface. Gasping for air he saw the girl trashing wildly about three meters away from him. They had reached the turbulent water, and were drifting quickly towards a small fall. The thought of foaming white-water got Tomasso into action. With two strokes, he was by her side. “I’m here, I’m here,” he said, trying to calm her, but the girl was panicking. Screaming for him to help her, she flapped her arms around, and happened to struck him across the face. Then she went under water. Tomasso felt the tug from an undercurrent, filled his lungs with air, and dove after. The river had spun her around. The girl was facing him with eyes wide open. So much fear was crowded in those that Tomasso doubted she could see him. He pulled her in against his body, and kicked against the bottom. Breaching the surface, the bundle in his arms began to cough. He placed her in towing position, and swimming with his free arm and legs, he tried reaching the shore. But the water was too strong, and whenever he tried to swim with more force the girl ended up under water. The fall was coming up fast. Tomasso noted a big boulder that was jutting out from the shore just in front of it, and knew what he had to do. He aimed two strokes towards the rock, then spun around and felt an excruciating pain in his back and left shoulder as he slammed against it. Flesh was torn from his body, but it didn’t matter. His body had cushioned the girl in the collision. With the water pressing their bodies against the rough boulder, Tomasso searched for footing. He found the river bottom, pushed down against the sand, and forced his knees to lock. With all his remaining power he heaved the girl up on the boulder. The lift made him cry out in agony, but when he saw the girl’s body stir under the drenched nightgown and wet skein of hair, he forgot about the pain. He even had time for a smile. Then he lost foothold. His lungs ached as they took in the cold water, but it didn’t matter. The girl was safe, and he was moving on.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Norse man — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 04:50:54 -0500

Arg. This is getting ridicilous. There, now it's posted correctly. ...................................................................................... Prologue Southern Italy Lazily rising dust clouds marked the column of men and animals, their dark silhouettes could be glimpsed beneath, moving in the arid and bleak hilly landscape. The sun loomed high, baking the landscape and the unfortunate left unprotected in peak summer heat. Brown grass clang desperately to life among scattered trees, seemingly losing the fight. The rough clad man noticed the strangers approach warily. It was time to go. He had near completed the tedious task of refilling his water skins. His breath had caught from his hurried efforts of hauling a corroded bronze bucket up and down an old well fashioned from red brick. A good well like that had been a lucky find. The armed groups who fought each other in these lands took turns poisoning or burying wells with stones, and rivers or streams in this dry landscape were scarce. Securing the vital water would heighten his chance of survival in the days to come, but loitering around to see if the strangers were friendly would not. Serving as a stark reminder of the chaotic and dangerous times were the ruins encircling the well. Sturdy walls of the same red brick that made up the well coupled with a few costly marble columns still showed off the size and grandeur of the abandoned estate, but the roofs were missing from the manor house and nearby stables. Blackened and melted stones and bricks revealed their fate. Only charred earth marked where timber buildings had once stood, likely the quarters of the estate’s slaves and servants. No human remains lay among the ruins though. Either no blood had been spilt here, or someone had laid the fallen to their eternal rest. A defensive brick wall had been put up around the compound. Its mortar had looked new to the man’s eye while passing the broken front gates. Although higher than a man, well bedecked in slit holes, and with reinforced guard towers thoughtfully placed along its perimeter it evidently had not been worth the effort for whoever had commissioned it. Maybe he should have spent the coin on more personal guards, or perhaps chosen his alliances more carefully, the man thought to himself. Not that he himself had fared any better, he darkly added. His own vast riches were gone, save for the relatively small portion he had been able to salvage. Yet, he was still alive, and that was more than enough. Scrubby plants sprouted from the ground floor, a year or two at least must have come and gone since anyone had claimed the estate. Distant family members eager to either inherit or to avenge should have arrived to do so by now. He guessed it was a sign as good as any that the current upheaval was all the more serious, with seemingly rich pickings like this being left to rats and wild birds for so long. The last water skin was tied onto his grey mule. Neither she nor her gelded brown companion showed any more interest in the clear water put before them. They were laden with supplies, and had to carry the man’s weight from time to time as well, but they endured it well. The animals were strong and young, and quite large for mules, almost the size of horses. He would have much prepared the latter however. Unfortunately, they had proved to be more worth than both gold and loyalty a few days ago. As he prepared to leave, he glanced away from the nearing dust cloud, and looked at his own reflection in the bronze container, a sign of vanity that he should have put to rest long since. He had like his surroundings seen much better days. A scruffy beard the color of dried mud covered his dust covered face. His hair seemed the nest of a particularly disordered bird, and his greyish eyes seemed as tired as he felt. Still, he pocketed a narcissistic satisfaction from admiring his own jawline and finely chiseled features. His face somehow spoke both of age and youth. In fact, many a man or woman would be hard pressed to ascertain his age. Earlier attempts at estimates varied from as low as a score and four, or over three dozen. He prided himself in that too, yet he wondered about it more, had in fact sought answers for a very long time without finding any. He was different, somehow. The years did not touch him as they did other men. Scattering the reflection as he scooped up water to clear away some of the grime of travel from his face, he led the mules towards the smaller back gate, the only other opening in the brick wall besides the one he had passed through earlier. The heavy wooden gates were intact and now opened wide. The raiders that had torched the buildings had evidently been courteous enough to come knocking at the front. He expected to be long gone before the column reached the estate, and from the looks of them they were unlikely to pursue him. If they did, he had the means to dissuade them from further attempts, unconsciously feeling the smooth yew bow slung across his back with his fingers. Suddenly, when he was no more than twenty paces away from the breach, a man appeared to bar his way. Then another. More men continued to spill through the gate, forming a half circle around him. Their eyes held him, javelins at the ready, dissuading him from taking another step. Two of them moved quickly towards the ruined buildings, eyes darting here and there scanning the area for anything or anyone of interest. Trapped, he had little choice but to stand his ground and study them, trying to calm his limbs and his wits.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Carramae — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 12:05:17 -0500

This is a little scary, since I haven't had anyone really read this, but here it goes: Mrs. Lovell scurried into the kitchen, making a fuss of clanking noises as she dug through the cupboards to find some pots. Gathering what she could in her arms, she went into the dining area and placed the pots under wherever there was a leak. By the time she had finished the tiresome task, there were six pots throughout the room, each magnifying the sound of the dripping water. Sighing to herself, she wiped her brow and parted the faded curtain to look out the window. She drew out another wearisome sigh. Outside was a flutter of leaves being whisked away by the howling wind. Dark and dismal clouds hung forebodingly in the sky, and the constant thunder and lightning seemed to make the earth tremble from its rage. “God is angry and the angels are crying,” she said to herself. Yellow streaks lit up the grey skies and thunder roared again. Through the glass panes she watched as the lightning danced on the ocean’s surface and began to wonder how the sailors fared against such monstrous waves at sea. But her thoughts broke after feeling the tug of her skirt. Turning around, she looked down to see little Winnie gazing up at her with teary eyes. “There’s nothing to be frightened about,” she said as she swept the child into her arms. “It’s just a storm. It won’t last long.” Winnie wrapped her arms around Mrs. Lovell’s neck and sniffed away the remaining tears. “Why is God angry with us?” The question caused the old woman to laugh. “Oh dearie, you mustn’t take it so literally. It’s just an expression.” She bounced the girl against her hip as she tried to get a better hold of her, but the weight caused her arms to shake. “My are you getting heavy! I have to let you down or I fear I will drop you!” As she placed the frowning Winnie back on her feet, the doorbell rang. Shooing the little girl away to the other children, she ran to open the door. “Evening Miss!” The man bowed his head slightly and grinned, showing a chipped tooth under his dripping moustache. He was holding a crate full of vegetables. “Well don’t just stand there in the rain, Charlie. Do come in!” She pulled him into the foyer, but he didn’t go a step further, not wanting to get the floor wet. “The whole house is wet. What difference does it make if you make a little puddle on the floor?” “You are too kind, Mrs. Lovell.” He grinned again. “Now don’t tell me you came all the way here just to give me some vegetables.” He placed the crate on the side table beside him. “I picked them yesterday. It wouldn’t be fresh if I waited for the storm to pass over. You know, they say the sky isn’t going to clear up until a couple of days. I was worried for the children. It’s important for them to get their daily vegetables. Makes them grow.” Mrs. Lovell’s hands went from her hips to her heart, and she smiled a smile that caused Mr. Gifford to fan himself even though he was soaking wet. “Why aren’t you the sweetest man mine eyes to ever behold, Charlie. I don’t know how I can ever repay you for all you’ve done for the children and me.” “Aw, I don’t seek a reward,” he replied, scratching his head. “I can never compete with your generosity towards those poor children. Oh!” His hand formed a fist and he knocked his head, as if punishing himself for his stupidity. “Two kids!” “Two kids?” repeated Mrs. Lovell. “Outside!” “Dear heavens!” she rushed to the door and looked outside to see two little children, a girl and a boy, shivering on the stairs of the house. She took each of their hands and led them into the warmth of the foyer. “You’re here going on about vegetables while these poor babies were outside freezing in the rain?” Mr. Gifford looked down to the ground, like a dog that had just been sent to the doghouse. In seeing such a pitiful sight, Mrs. Lovell drew out a breath. “Don’t just stand there old boy, help me get these two kids situated!” His ears perked up as she said this, and with his grey eyes twinkling once again, he responded with a “Certainly,” and came to her side. Off into the kitchen they went, with Mr. Gifford taking the liberty of seating the children as Mrs. Lovell took out two pots from the bottom cupboard and began to cook. Knowing the house quite well, Mr. Gifford left the kitchen and came back shortly after with flannel blankets in his hands. Putting the blankets around the kids’ shoulders, he sat down across from the boy. “You two are in good hands now. Mrs. Lovell is a saint of a woman, and she will take you under her wing.” His eyes wandered from child to child. He naturally assumed them brother and sister, noting the similarities between them. Both had hair of golden brown, with eyes of the most lucid blue. Whether it was from being in the cold or not, their skin was strikingly white, causing them to take on the appearance of porcelain dolls. The boy kept his expressionless eyes locked on the stranger in front of him as the sister, overwhelmed by her new surroundings, felt it safest to be in her brother’s arms. Her head was in his lap, and all Mr. Gifford could see now of her was her head of flowing locks. A little squeal was heard as Mrs. Lovell lifted the girl up and put her back on her chair. “Drink this, dearie.” She put a cup of warm milk in front of the girl and her brother. “The porridge will come shortly and before you know it you will be warm and dry in front of the fireplace.” She handed Mr. Gifford a cup as well and he graciously thanked her.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bellez055 — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 14:12:28 -0500

This is a VERY rough draft of an opening: On my nineteenth birthday, I dreamt about a door. I stood before it and traced the intricate scroll work with my eyes. Vines swept and curled along the deep brown wood, leading to detailed flowers that adorned each of the four corners. I heard a slight click and the door began to swing towards me, hinges creaking. As the narrow line of light behind the door grew larger, apprehension coiled in my stomach. Some primal instinct caused my mouth to run dry and my palms to sweat as I stood, almost frozen in place. “No,” I whispered to myself. It wasn’t the first time I had a dream about this particular door; but it was the first time the door was unlocked. I was reaching my hand out to push the door closed when my alarm went off. The dream shattered. Hitting the snooze button allowed me to drift back into that surreal state somewhere between dreaming and waking. My mind wandered, searching to return to the door but unable to find it again. The second alarm went off nine minutes later and I leaned over to shut it off. Not ready to get up and still shaken from the dream, I lay back down on my bed. I stared up at the ceiling and let my mind wander, questions filling my head: Where did the door lead? What was behind the door? And most important— Had I closed the door? Images fluttered in and out of my head and I struggled to remember the details of the dream. Gradually, the haze of sleep began to clear and the dream moved farther from my consciousness, taking with it the fear that was twisting my stomach. The dream faded away and my stomach unclenched, but my uneasiness lingered.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ihazabeard — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:24:17 -0500

It was raining on the particular day I am describing; raining most violently, as if the ground and its inhabitants had done the clouds some deep personal wrong. Mordecai was inside, of course. It had been raining near-constantly for the past three days and he hadn’t left his house in all that while. It wasn’t an unpleasant house but Lord! How dull it could be when you didn’t want to leave it. He was considering going insane just to pass the time. He was a Colldering: a curious species of humanoid dog. He was tall, covered in jet black fur and had eyes the colour of dull fire. His tail was of medium length, curled upwards and it amused itself by tickling his back when he wasn’t looking. In addition, he was very intelligent – a scientist. In fact, he had been sent to the rainy city of Doradon, on a scientific expedition most important. He and every other Colldering were deathly ill – they sneezed and blubbered and fainted at will. At least half the population had a perpetual temperature, the other half prone to seizures and bouts of cardiac arrest. Pustules pervaded the skin at leisure, coughing up blood was now the norm: one by one, they were dying off like flies in an empty jar and all this for no apparent reason. Mordecai, a respected member of his field, widely regarded as brilliant, had offered to find the ultimate answer to what the fuck was going on. Despite what he knew would probably end up happening. But- He couldn’t go outside in the rain or, more accurately, the wetness the rain provided. Ergo, he couldn’t get to the Doradon Marshmallow Facility where he did his research due to a long standing, entirely irrational phobia of water. This, sprouting from an incident in which his mother accidently licked him in the eyeball when he was a puppy. But we won’t go into that. As if to illustrate my point, a violent sneeze racked his body and made him go dizzy. He stumbled sideways and dunked the tip of a claw in the fish tank. He had a minor panic attack and sat on the ground, groaning for a while. A knock at his door. Quiet but firm – he looked up. Sairey, the maid, entered the drawing room and frowned. For the third time this week, Master le Vogel was curled in the foetal position in the middle of the drawing room floor. She sighed and helped him up. Sairey was a Veshter – like a little gecko, except large and terrifying. She possessed scaly, green skin, bright orange eyes, and spines along her back, and a very long tail. Mini-Godzilla, if you will. She towered a full three centimetres over Mordecai. ‘Thank you,’ he told her, brushing off his own hair from his suit that had clung onto it from the carpet. The damn stuff got everywhere. ‘Post,’ she murmured, smiling politely. A cadmium yellow postcard was in her hand; she gave it to him and shot him a devastated look before going away. Every day. Everyone looked at with such sadness. He tried not to notice it but he couldn’t help himself and it made him feel sad too. Sighing, he turned his attention to the postcard. Dear Mr le Vogel, My name is Altevo Rex of Partington Valley. I write to offer my services to your research. I studied four years at Entford under Tealeaf Gatiss, and am fully qualified to partake in what you are doing. I am also fully aware of what the research entails and am prepared. I am sorry it has to be done at all. Sincerely, ~AR He pretended not to notice the small spray of blood that pervaded the bottom corner of the paper and sat in his favourite armchair, threading his tail through the special hole in the back. He looked out the window in an attempt to brood and ponder like the characters in books he had read but the rain only succeeded in making him feel sick. His hand grappled for a pen on the desk next to him and some paper. Dear Miss Rex, If you are sure you want to, I would be grateful. Come to this address at midday on Wednesday. Sincerely, ~MlV He managed to find an envelope, in which he enclosed his letter. He copied out the return address from the postcard and sealed the envelope, leaving it on the desk to post when it stopped raining. ~ At midday on Wednesday, there was knock on the door. Loud and hurried – he looked up. A few moments later Sairey entered followed by a Colldering. She was shorter than Mordecai and her fur was thick and floofy, like a baby chicken. Her eyes were distracting. Blue like ice and the sea and the sky and the cool rage of a thousand gods; darker around the edges like the shading in circles your art teacher made you do in Year 7. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m Altevo, you must be Mordecai.’ ‘That I am,’ said Mordecai. Altevo looked very sad to see him. Sairey looked very uncomfortable. ‘Miss Rex, for your research. Have everything we need, do we?’ she asked awkwardly. ‘Yes, thank you, Sai,’ Mordecai said. She inclined her head at him and then left. For all the sadness in her voice, at least she hadn’t cried. That was something. An improvement some would call it. Mordecai was more content to call it a fluke. He led Altevo to the armchairs and implored her to sit. He prodded at the lit fire for a while with the poker before sitting down. He met her eyes and was made extremely uncomfortable by the fact they had been trained on his the whole time. He looked away cumbersomely. ‘How was the journey?’ he asked her, grappling for anything akin to small talk. ‘It was as good as I had expected,’ she replied. ‘And what had you expected?’ ‘Rain and drizzle and lots of mud.’ ‘Mud? You walked from the Partington Valley?’ ‘Well, I hitched a ride in a wagon some of the way, but yes.’ ‘Oh, okay,’ Mordecai smiled graciously. The Partington Valley was a poor area, filled with crime and ruffians and improperly pressed linen – not that this was to say everyone in it was a low-life. He had assumed that Altevo was one of the snooty, rich folk; the minority that inhabited the north of the valley. She had attended Entford University, after all and under Professor Tealeaf Gatiss, no less. None of it quite added up – she attended the best and most coveted university in the land and yet she had had to make her own way to Doradon. If she was poor and well educated, what could that mean? She must be smart. Fancy that. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Yeah,’ he replied. They carried on in this fashion for a while until Altevo threw up her paws in an ‘I give up’ sort of way. The mood changed then and her eyebrows knotted together. ‘You don’t have to, you know,’ she said. ‘You’ll go down in history, people will lull their puppies to sleep with your story but…you don’t have to. Not really. You don’t have to die.’ ‘I know,’ he replied. ‘But I’m going to. It’s the only way, isn’t it?’ ‘Yep.’ The rain stopped. ‘The rain’s stopped,’ she said. Mordecai broke into a smile; he leapt up from his chair. ‘About bloody time! Come on, I’ll take you to the Marshmallow Facility and show you the research I’ve collected so far. You’re going to love it.’ Altevo replied with a vicious fit of sneezing. She apologised and followed where he led.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Meowzbark — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 00:31:42 -0500

------------------ Another cloudless day. A thousand shades of blue, deepest at the horizon and nearly white around the sun. It had not rained since the month before last. Erika and I performed a rain dance on Saturday, but the only rain cloud around was my mother. As my eyes were focused on the street leading up to the driveway, I didn’t catch her presence until she was nearly upon me. With feet tucked beneath me and my right arm draped over the ornate wood of the wing chair, I earned a scowl the moment my mother passed into the hallway. I straightened out my posture and stole the words from her before they were spoken. “Claire,” I mimicked automatically. “How many times do I have to tell you-”. Her right hand abruptly silenced my lips with an open palm. “Next time I see you do that I’ll staple your feet to the floor and tape your mouth shut. Comprende?” I nodded, rubbing a bruised lip. She leaned against the armrest with a manicured hand. My eyes widened at the fresh pink and white acrylic. “Is Daddy coming home too?” I asked. “Huh?” She responded. It was rare that either of us mentioned him, but rarer still that she dolled herself up. “Don’t be silly. He’s on the road ‘till the holidays.” Then why - alas, it matter little now. The low growl of a diesel engine knocked away the questions arising that she wouldn’t answer regardless. My mother didn’t appreciate being questioned; and I didn’t care to remain a moment more in her presence. I flung open the front door, traversed down the front patio to the over-sized red pickup truck, and sought refuge in his arms. His thick arms reminded me of a bear and shirtless he resembled one. I breathed in the stench of his cigarettes that lingered on his plaid shirt. I felt his hand upon my head, stroking the dark curls. My uncle had arrived. The moment was cut short by my mother’s voice. “Claire, be useful and help empty the truck!” He pulled away, only to cup a hand to my chin a moment later. I winced from the pressure. He shook his head slowly and grabbed a duffel bag and offered me the straps. “Best not get on her bad side.” “She doesn’t have a good side.” I whined. “Claire, please. It’s been a long ride. I don’t want to play referee quite yet.” “I’m sorry. I missed you.” “And I, you.” While my mother stole Uncle Dennis’ attention with hushed conversation, I maneuvered the bulky bag through the front hall and upstairs into the spare bedroom and set it a foot inside the doorway. After I brought up two more luggage bags, I heard my uncle walked up the stairs and enter the room. Momma trailed him like a puppy. “I hope it’s to your liking.” She said. I knew it wasn’t. A vase of fresh wildflowers graced a small lace tablecloth on top of the end table in front of floor length curtains. The lilac floral bedding was situated for visual appeal rather than comfort. Seven pillows of various shapes and sizes cluttered the upper half. A teddy bear dead center added to the absurdness. Tempted as I was to push buttons between the siblings, I was less willing to suffer another swift punishment from my mother by pointing out the obvious. My uncle paced the perimeter of the bed. He picked up one of the decorative pillows. I flipped my attention to my mother whose small frame leaned against the door. I smiled, smug in anticipation. I shifted my sights back to the bed and my smile vanished. His eyes were heavy and red – but this is a man I’d never see cry – and he was holding out a pillow for me to remove. “All I want is to sleep.” I collected all but one pillow and piled the stack in the closet. “Three weeks tomorrow.” He remarked. “What is?” I asked. “Nothing!” My mother sprung into motion and wheeled me from the room. “Absolutely nothing.” She shut me out of the room. I was left thinking of the last visit from my uncle in April. The weather was warm enough for shorts, but I hid my chunky thighs beneath jeans and a baggy shirt. I painted my toes a rainbow of pastels and showed them off in sunflower sandals. Uncle Dennis came with family in tow. His quiet wife, Mirabelle, avoided my mother like a sick child. Ironically, two year old Hallie shadowed my mother and her giggle and clumsy footsteps echoed throughout the house as she chased my mother from room to room. Jesse was a year younger than me and he often convinced his father to take the pair of us on an adventure. Whether it was to a park, the store, or the backyard I cared little. We spent hours prepping the pool for the upcoming summer that weekend. I smelled like algae and my muscles ached in abuse, yet it didn’t seem a chore until we had finished. They left with promise to come test out the pool when the hot weather began. The entire summer passed without a visit. Now, my uncle was here. Alone.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kayth — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 19:34:08 -0500

I don't think the second line is necessary; the third line emphasizes that theres no rain in a much more creative way. "Bruised lip" seems very violent. I'd pictured her her putting her hand over the MC's mouth, but this makes me think that she's beating the MC. Unless Claire's lip had been bruised by something else. In that case, you should say that. "Is Daddy coming home, too?" - I didn't understand the "too" part, because I didn't know that anyone way coming home. traversed down the front patio to the over-sized red pickup truck, and sought refuge in his arms - this makes it sound as if she's in the truck's arms. “Three weeks tomorrow.” He remarked. “What is?” I asked. “Nothing!” - very interesting! His quiet wife, Mirabelle, avoided my mother like a sick child - why would a sick child avoid someone? It took me a moment to realize Hallie and Jesse were Claire's cousins. Now, my uncle was here. Alone. - great tension! I want to know why. Overall, this looks like a really interesting concept, but I think the writing could use some revising. There were several grammar mistakes (two year old instead of two-year-old, for example). Though the dialog was well-written and true to life, this didn't read like a YA narrator (which I assume it is). The long sentances and words made the writting seem awkward; I'd recomend simplifying the words so that they sound like something a teen actually uses. (Very few teens use words like traversed and was situated (which is technically two words)). I'd give this a solid B for effort and concept, but I think it'll take some work to get it to an A.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kayth — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 20:34:07 -0500

When I heard that Mason had gone missing, I immediatly started to divide everything I knew into two groups: the things I could tell the police, and the things he'd want me to lie about. I wrote it all out on the backs of two old science worksheets and a math test I was suppost to retake today. Then I triple-checked my story to make sure I hadn't screwed up and screwed myself over. It only took a couple hours to write, and less than three minutes to memorize the entire thing word for word. I thought about sticking them down the shredder when I was done, but then I remembered a dumb crime show where the detective pieced the tiny strips of paper back together and caught the killer. Not that I was stupid enough to think they'd actually take the time to do that in real life. But I still flushed them down the toilet instead, just to be sure. Then I was ready to head to the police station. This was all part of our plan. Of course, this particular plan had been filed under just-in-case, never-gonna-happen. We'd pinkie sweared in third grade to be PCFs – Partners in Crime Forever. The idea that one of us would do something illegal without the other was unbelievable. Until, you know, it happened. (Is it illegal to take your mom's car without asking, or would that just be considered family problems? Not that it matters. He's still going to be busted for driving without a license. He never even got his permit; I'm amazed that he's been gone for two days without the car nosediving off a cliff or something.) Theres only one thing standing between me and the police station now: Mom. The woman with a capital M and an invisible B that stands for a word I can't say in front of my sister. I slid her bedroom door open. She was sprawled across her side of the bed with her cheek pressed against the corner of her bedside table. Dad's side was crumpled, even though he hadn't been home last night. Maybe Mom had rolled over and messed up the whole bed herself – after all, I hadn't heard anything last night that would, uh, suggest that someone else had been in here. Plus, bringing someone to our house would be risky. What if I caught them? All the years of lies would fall apart. "I'm going to the police station," I said, just so I could claim later that I'd told her. In two minutes she wouldn't even remember that I'd been here. She squirmed and pulled the covers over her head, mumbling in what was either French or gibberish. I didn't know what she'd actually said, but I took a shot at answering anyways. "I put Luce on the bus, and I'll be back to pick her up at three. I'll start the laundry when I get home. Love you." The last two words nearly choked me, but I swear they had a magical quality that guarenteed I'd get my way. She sighed a little and rolled over without a single question about why I wasn't in school. Her gasping snores filled the room, and I eased the door shut behind me. The police station was a half hour walk, assuming I didn't get run down by some road-rage idiot who didn't want to accept that he could only drive 25 miles an hour. Normally this wouldn't seem like a bad walk, but the police were going to guarentee that today would be all-around suckish. No way I wanted to face an hour walk on top of that. Besides, stealing a car was number seven on me and Mason's bucket list, and there was no way I'd let him get ahead of me. I grabbed Mom's keys and headed to the garage. Mason might've been first, but I was going to crush him when it came to style. What could be greater than illegally driving a borrowed car straight to the police? Actually, it wasn't as cool as I'd thought it would be, mostly since it had to be the slowest drive in history. I didn't dare go faster than five below the speed limit – to avoid the stupid cop who pull people over for going three above, that asshole – and I had to keep pulling over to let inconsiderate jerks pass me, saluting me with their middle finger the whole time. I was tempted to slow my speed to about five miles an hour so that I could trap a certain horn-blaring idiot in a no-passing zone, but I resisted. The point was to avoid being arrested. Passive-aggressive road rage wouldn't help. If I'd known what was waiting for me at the police station, I would've taken a whole lot longer – maybe an extra hour or two, just to be safe. Because standing outside the building was the last person I wanted to see. She was obviously sobbing into what looked like a wad of thrity or forty tissues, but somehow her blonde hair still looked perfect. It even managed to blow in the nonexistant wind. That alone was enough to give her away, even before I saw her face. Mrs. Finn. Mason's mother. I threw the car into reverse, but it was too late. She'd seen me. She turned and marched straight for my car, and somehow her red-rimmed eyes made her seem fiercer than ever. My foot hovered over the gas pedal as I weighed the odds of a clean getaway. But she'd probably race after me. I shifted into park. She tapped on my window until I rolled it down. "Violette," she said, and I tried to keep from wincing at the sickly way she said my name. As if it wasn't already bad enough. "I didn't know you got your licence." "Oh, yeah." Of course I didn't have it, but I couldn't exactly say that now. "I got it last week. On my birthday."

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 04:18:33 -0500

It felt as if I was breaking an unwritten rule reading Anna Braam’s diary, but my boss, Dr Claus Truman had assured me that nothing is sacred to a folklorist. Really, me being a folklorist was only his wistful thinking -- I had finished my M. Pill in archaeology a month earlier -- but, at any rate, Anna Braam had been dead for nearly four hundred years, and her tattered diary could be our only chance to learn what had actually transpired in Darwenwood in 1613. Poring over the leather bound journal, I untangled the tortuous handwriting, occasionally sipping my tea. The words pulled me further and further into the intrigues and everyday life of a merchant’s daughter. But I was yet to read something about the woman we suspected had been hung and burnt at the stake, accused of being a witch. The mildewed pages gave off a musty smell with a hint of vanilla. It was a scent I associate so strongly with the old books in the Bodleian Library back home in Oxford, that at one point in the afternoon, I had caught myself thinking I was sitting by the history collections in the Rad Cam Gallery. Of course, one look at the Ziploc-bagged artefacts on the table had been enough to remind me that I was in the dining room at the Wilburs’ bed and breakfast in Anna Braam’s hometown. Rain pattered steadily against the window. Claus and I had been in Darwenwood for eighteen days, and this was the second day in a row that the weather had prevented us from working at the excavation. My colleague was sitting across from me, viewing a CD-ROM with photocopies of the parish register on his MacBook, and suddenly he let out, “Hmm. . . . that’s strange. Hannah, look at this!” I raised my eyes from the diary. The light from the laptop screen reflected on the glass of Claus’ thin rimmed glasses. He was a lanky man whose hair bore signs of a lengthy career in research. “What’s that?” I asked, and poured some more water on my wishy-washy teabag. Claus turned his computer around and leaned over the table to make sure he was pointing at the right entry. I squinted and pulled a bit closer. The handwriting in the parish register was if possible even more winding than in the diary under my chin, and the entry Claus was pointing at had been crossed out with a stroke of black ink. “I really can’t see anything,” I told him with a light shrug. “Why has it been crossed out?” “That’s what’s strange,” Claus said, unplugging the laptop. “In rare cases when someone moved from a parish their entry was crossed out, but whoever kept these records actually took his time to make notes about migrations. Here, can you try to make the picture bigger for me?” I smiled and took the computer from his hands. If there was one reason Claus really needed my presence in Darwenwood, it was to manage his new MacBook. I put the diary aside and cleared some space among my notes on the table. It took me about a minute to take a screenshot of the parish register, crop out the strange entry, and blew it up till it covered the whole screen. Then I played around with the contrast for a while, and when I was satisfied I saved the image on the desktop. “Looks like you’ve got two different types of ink,” I said and handed the laptop back to Claus. “So have you decided yet?” he asked. He was referring to my possible doctoral studies. The university had finally granted his request to be allowed to supervise a folklorist -- His research in the European witch-hunt and folklore surrounding witchcraft had always been filed under the anthropology department, much to his chagrin -- and for reasons I couldn’t understand he wanted me to be his test dummy. He had offered me the job in Darwenwood in exchange for my serious consideration of a future as a folklorist. I sighed and tucked a sling of my brown hair behind my ear. “I’m still thinking about it. . . I mean, I don’t even believe in any of that stuff.” “But that’s not the point,” Claus assured me, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You don’t have to believe in myths to study them. Take this case for example.” He pointed at my stack of notes. “Neither of us believes that the woman who might have been accused for witchcraft actually had the ability to commit such a crime, but we’re here to find out why the villager believed it at the time, and why all those ghost stories arose.” “Mmm, I suppose,” I mumbled. “But how often would I find a case like this? Probably never.” “There are as many cases as there are myths and legends. Perhaps not where you’d get to dig in the ground, but in books.” “Ask me on the way back to Oxford,” I said shortly. Claus knew better than to push me. I head him take out a paper and then, extremely slowly, as if he was thinking before every letter, write something down. Frustrated I found that my concentration had scattered with his question. Seeing that it was nearly time to call it a day, I took the can with deacidification spray, and started treating some more of the pages in the diary. The spray was supposed to stop the deterioration. Claus cleared his throat. “I think our crossed-out entry reads: On the second of November sixteen-four Oscar Norman and his sister Abigail immigrated from the borough of Liverpool.” “Did you say Norman?” I put down the spray can so hastily that it fell over, and had to remind myself to handle Ann Braam’s diary with care when I flipped through the pages. “Here!” I exclaimed, when I found the entry I was looking for.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 14:06:32 -0500

It is cold here. The dirt clings to my hands, so thickly caked that I cannot even remember the callouses beneath it. Perhaps that is a blessed thing. This way the numb of the cold and the layers of grime can protect my skin from the hardness of the pickaxe. It hasn't been smoothed well, and sometimes the little bits of wood get caught up inside my palms, and it stings and hurts and gets pussy with infection. Then I have to find someone to pull it out. That hurts worse than the stinging, and it's always hard to find someone who will stop the working long enough to dig the splinters out with their emaciated, gangly fingers. There is a danger in stopping the working. That's of course why they don't stop, not usually. They aren't hard of heart, you see, there isn't a meanness in their dispassion. But the whips the overseers hold are slick and ready, their tips armed with tiny bits of polished stone. Not enough to cut deeply, of course, that would also cause a halt to the working, and an unnecessary application of that cleaning stuff they value so highly. Or maybe just the disposal of another body, if they don't want to bother with the treatment. There is a constant ringing in the air. Pain is good for motivation, even when your back aches so bad you think at any moment it'll snap in two. My ax is always swinging, up and down, a steady motion that never ceases. Sometimes I imagine that the whole thing is a song, a melody that I am listening to. I can put a beat to it, ba dum dum dum, and then someone will strike just the right rock and a glorious ping will go up in the air and make a punctuated sound to my imaginary music. But then one of the workers gets too weary to swing, the overseer nips them with the whip, and their scream destroys my melody. The rocks for which we dig are beautiful things. They make me think of sunlight. Sometimes that filters down here, through the wooden cracks high above our heads, leagues away from where we are. The younger ones like to look at the reflection of it in the murky puddles and then splash at it, giggling with glee, chasing after golden ghosts of things that they will never truly see. They grasp at it with tiny fingers to try and catch it and pull it closer, take it in, but it is not tangible. It is cruel in its elusiveness. The rocks, though. I hate the rocks, because I know they are why I'm stranded down here for hours, until I can find my way back to the feeding hall and then to my quarters. I love them, too, because when I hold them in my hands and stare into their polished surfaces, sometimes I can see my face looking back at me. Freckled nose and wavy auburn hair. Dark brown eyes that make me think of the mud sticking between my toes. Purple, bruised-looking lips, discolored from the constant coldness that seeps in from the walls and gets its dampness in my clothing and in my flesh. I see my cheekbones, set high, and my small pointed chin. I wonder if I would be a pretty girl if I got a bath. I wonder if I would be beautiful of they gave us all more feedings. I can only look for a short while. The overseers get suspicious of you if you study the pretty white gems too long. Think that you will pocket them and not hand them over to be counted. Everybody knows that's just a silly notion. Nobody is dumb enough to keep the stones. We all know that they keep us alive. That their energy keeps this shield around us, and keeps all of the bad things from getting in. We work for our protection here. We can never forget that. The life is hard, and the leaders do not hold this fact away from us. But it keeps us safe from what lay beyond the boundary. I've heard rumors of it. Perhaps next time I'll write the rumors, but tonight my fingers are cramping, and the small straw mattress in the corner of the room is calling to me with its dirty sheets and poking bits of protruding hay. I will write more tomorrow.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 11:35:34 -0500

It was empathy at first hearing. The moment that Father Michael Donovan heard the gurgled breathing of the dying man, he felt pity for him. Father Michael knew death. He had seen it many times in his sixty-five years, beginning at age eight with the death of his mother. The hospital called him several times a week to administer “Last Rites” to those Catholic faithful who requested it. He rounded the ICU and NICU to console those that were close to their ends no matter their spiritual beliefs, for “every man is equal in the eyes of God.” Father Michael knew death personally as well. Terminal cancer ate away at his lungs and bones even as he felt pity for the man in the room. The pity he felt did not come from death. No, it came from the pain that the man would suffer before the end. All death would be bearable if it were painless, Father Michael thought. He hoped that he received pity when his time of pain came before his end. Father Michael leaned on his cane and gritted his teeth as the bones in his legs throbbed with the pain of cancer and exertion. The first step hurt the most, and when the priest turned into the room, the pain throbbed dully, not distant enough to be forgotten, but enough to ignore. The priest looked at the blue room and felt the psychological effects of the room flood over him. He felt calmer when he crossed the threshold. Not wanting to look at the dying body lying on the bed, laboring for breath, Father Michael looked to the other side of the room. Golden, early morning light streamed in through the shutters, and he could see the dust floating on currents of air. He took a step towards the window, making sure not to look at the dying man. Looking at the death took preparation. The widow allowed him to gather himself. He knew what it looked like outside. His hands were still trying to warm up from the short walk from his car to the entrance to the hospital. Delay, the priest thought. All I am doing is delaying facing what I am to become. Is it that hard to look at, really? Father Michael turned. The man on the bed looked to be sleeping shallowly, but thankfully he still slept. Seeing the old, emaciated figure laying there, the priest’s heart did not sink as he thought it would. Instead, his heart raced. This man mirrored what he would look like when the time came, except for the hair. Father Michael pitied the person, but felt the sin of envy. Once he had thought that he would escape the hair loss that accompanied chemotherapy. Not losing any hair after the first two rounds, Father Michael though that he would be spared that, even if he experienced violent bouts of vomiting and diarrhea. Those things were private. Everyone would know if he started losing his hair. After the third round, and no hair loss, he thought it would never happen until he showered two days later and saw the clump of gray in his hands after he shampooed his scalp. He cried in the shower when he saw it. It became real for him then. He cried and cried and almost cursed God for the cancer and not the cigarettes. He wept until the water ran cold. The priest ran a hand over his bald head. He did not know how long he had been truly bald. After the shower, he shaved his head in order to save himself the embarrassment of irregular loss. His eyebrows fell out some weeks later. He envied that gray hair. His hair looked like that before it all fell out. Pain and baldness waited for him when the chemotherapy finally failed and the surgeon decided that nothing more could be done. Coughing and gagging snapped the priest out his reverie. Blood tinged sputum leaked out of the other’s mouth, but he did not wake. Father Michael limped to the side of the bed and made a sign of the cross over the body and mumbled an old prayer that his father had taught him a long time ago. The priest reached to his left and pulled several tissues and moved to wipe the bloody mess that trickled down the man’s chin and started to stain his gown. “Don’t touch me,” the man said in a raspy whisper punctuated with crackles and gurgles as he breathed. The eyes opened and Father Michael saw youth in them, not at all like the eyes of someone that looked near eighty. “I’m…I’m sorry my son. I didn’t mean to disturb you…” The man heaved again, and more bloody froth escaped from his lips. He looked at the priest and wiped his mouth with his wrist. Father Michael tried to help his sit up, but the man held out a hand. No. Don’t help me. Stubborn, Father Michael thought. Pride always comes before the fall. Father Michael reached over and pressed a button on the side of the bed. The hum of the motor sounded as the head of the bed raised. Soon the man sat upright and immediately his breathing improved. “What is your name, my son?” Father Michael asked. “You don’t remember me? I remember you. Yes, it was not that long ago… before the accident…for me not long, but you maybe a year or more. You don’t remember me?” Father Michael closed his eyes and thought about all of the people that he met and none of the faced he could remember matched the one he looked at. “I’m sorry. My memory’s not as good as it once was...,” he tapped his head with a finger. “Old age I guess.” “I treated you for pneumonia. You asked me what I believed,” the man said. Father Michael frowned. He remembered that conversation well. A young man had come to see him that day when his normal doctor had to be away to see to the birth of his child. That doctor had youth and a long future. This man looked old, maybe even older than himself. “That doctor was young, not more than thirty five years old,” Father Michael. “I am that same Sean Goodman, Father Michael. I was thirty-five then, and although I don’t look it, I’m thirty six-now.” --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Prosaurus — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 16:23:47 -0500

It's a shame to have a limit of 1000 words, so I'm going to have to cut about half of this out. Anyway, here goes: [quote]Prologue: Abduction February 18th 2029 The man began to think. If she ran now, he could easily catch her. She was, after all, just a school girl. But he couldn’t do it without witnesses, which he didn’t have time for. Sighing, the man got up. It would be so much easier if he had been allowed to bring a gun, even if he didn’t use it, but he had been told to have ‘no lethal weaponry, no matter what.’ He walked out of the room, heading for the garage. He had grabbed all the keys they had in this place, including the ones for their cars. The man smiled. There were upsides to kidnapping rich families. “Come on, Fable,” Diana said as she turned towards the gate. Happy for some company, Fable trotted along after her as she opened the gate and began to make her way down the hill, heading for the town below. This, she decided, was a disadvantage about living on a hill. There were no neighbours to run to for help in a time like this; she would have to go quite far down the hill before she came across anyone. Suddenly a thought came to her head: what if they saw me? What if the person responsible for whatever happened in her house had seen her through the window when they ran past? Could they be coming after her even now? A quick glance over her shoulder told her they hadn’t. Not yet, at any rate. Unnerved by the thought, Diana began to jog along the footpath, urging Fable to do the same. Behind her she could hear the faint sound of a garage door being opened. She began to run, crossing the road and heading for the bush on the other side. The man smiled evilly as he waited for the garage door to open. True, he couldn’t kill the girl and had been told to avoid injuring her, but if that’s what the circumstances required, he was sure the boss would understand. Revving the car’s engine, the man sped from the garage, drifting onto the road as he did so. He was out just in time to see the girl run into some bush a bit down the road. He raced across the distance in no time at all, turning into the bush behind the girl. She let out a scream as he did so, which brought a smile to the man’s face. Driving with only one hand, the man reached across the car an opened the door for the passenger seat. He drove over bush until he was right behind her, whereupon he spun the car into sharp turn, taking out the girl’s feet from beneath her and causing her to fall into the car. The man smiled, reaching down to his waist where his radio was clipped onto his belt. “All targets are subdued,” he spoke into it, “You may proceed with retrieval.” There was no reply; the less said the better. Suddenly the car flipped, having snagged on some bush, and tumbled over uncontrollably. The man let out a yell as the girl fell out of the car, leaving him by himself as the car was quickly compacted around him. Diana looked up to see the car roll several times, shattering the windows as it did. She tried to stand, to see if the man was ok, but as she did searing pain came up from her ankles, causing her to fall back down. Grimacing, she began to crawl towards the wreck of the car, determined to see if the man was fine. He obviously hadn’t been trying to kill her, so her family would probably be alive too, so she forgave him for whatever he had been trying to do. She wasn’t the sort of person to make a grudge. As she reached the car, she peered inside. The man’s face was lacerated like a cat’s scratch toy; his clothes now resembled mere rags. For some reason, he wasn’t bleeding heavily like he should be after such a crash. That was good. The man’s eyelids flickered, and he slowly looked towards Diana before passing out. He had seen her, she was sure. This would probably be something the man wouldn’t forget any time soon. Reaching through the door, Diana unlocked it and pulled it open. She then proceeded to pull to man from the inverted car, dragging him away from the car and shards of glass. She looked up, to see where Fable had gotten to, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hopefully he hadn’t been hit by the car when it crashed. This whole ordeal was just too much for her, and she began to quietly cry. Before long a dull throbbing sounded through the air, accompanied by a sudden gust of wind. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Diana looked up into the sky to see a stealth helicopter descending above her house. A rope dropped from it, which a man then slid down. Seconds later the helicopter began to ascend again, now with a small crate tied beneath it. It climbed up and over the house, and began to fly in her direction. Diana had a decision to make. She could either flee now and see if she could make it far enough for someone to notice and call for help, or she could give in and be taken away with her family. She looked down the hill. It was possible that she could make it far enough. But what then? Would these people just take any witnesses with them, or would they kill them? It didn’t matter, she decided, no one else needed to be involved in this. They came for her family, so why should she punish anyone else by getting them caught up in this? The shape of the helicopter loomed over her, blotting out the sun above her and cloaking her world in shadow.[/quote] This is the second half of the prologue. Please note I haven't even read through it myself, so grammar issues will be there.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

frenziedmythology — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 20:17:08 -0500

1 Red flashes lit around Aren's head as fiery boulders smashed into the walls of the kingdom, tearing away at the them and leaving the archers dangling for their lives. The Black Knights were attacking. Aren, wearing silver armor and carrying a golden sword, watched as row upon row of archers stood on the walls, some tumbling down as they smashed, others holding on for dear life, and yet others firing their arrows into the sea of shiny black warriors. Wooden catapults were the source of the flaming boulders coming in to the kingdom, and Aren was trying to come up with a way to put an end to the contraptions. But when a knight bigger than all others appeared, he knew the plan was over. The huge warrior carried a red sword, seeming to gleam with blood. His shiny black armor stood out with his red cape, which fluttered in the cool breeze. But what caught Aren's eye in the warrior was the being's red sword. It had stripes of black, but most of the blade was a deep blood red. It had curves that went up, and the bottom stayed sharpened. It truly was a weapon of pure evil. And who would wield it, except for the evil Lord Lucrid. The name, when Aren thought of it, caused a rippling through his mind, fear making its way into Aren's head and plaguing him. “Everyone!” Aren called, raising his golden sword high above his head. “Be ready! They're coming!” Soldiers unsheathed their swords and shook themselves out of their own fear. The yelling sounds of the Black Knights as they charged toward the ruined kingdom walls were terrifying. Aren gazed out upon his troops, and once again raised his voice. “Archers, take aim!” The elven archers on the walls obeyed by taking a shaft out of their loaded quiver, notching it into the bow string, and then pulling back the bow string as far as it would allow. “Be ready!” The archers selected various targets, and followed the Black Knights with their superb aim. “Fire!” The archers released the first volley, and the arrows launched full speed into their targets, killing the first two lines of charging Black Knights. “Fire at will!” Aren said, causing the archers to take aim and fire once more, and then again. The catapults of the enemy fired more boulders, and so almost the whole wall fell. The screams of the archers as they fell off of the wall and to their deaths stuck with Aren, though he tried to ignore them. “General Aren!” a soldier saluted. “Yes, Captain Mertilan?” “My troops are ready. Whenever you are, tell the trumpeter to blow the trumpet.” “Very good, Captain. We'll be needing you shortly. Join your ranks until summoned.” Captain Mertilan saluted again and left, walking through a stone doorway and then closing a door behind him. “They're coming. . .” Aren muttered, trying to wipe the nervous sweat off of his palms whilst still holding his golden sword, Nurr'tor. Aren walked over to part of the fallen wall, walked on top of it, and noticed Lord Lucrid being given a black shield with the head of a red dragon sprouting from the top, and a black forked tongue sticking out. Aren leaped down from the fallen rocks and ran back to his forces. “Archers, be ready! They're here!” Aren shouted as he brought Nurr'tor up and pulled on a silver helmet. “Charge!” The Black Knights ran over the fallen walls and charged at the warriors Aren was leading. Clang! Clash! The two armies' swords met in the air, and Aren countered his adversary's with a parry and then a quick thrust through the chest. Aren ran through the armies, trying to reach Lucrid, ignoring the blood splattering on him from falling Black Knights and his own warriors. Suddenly, he felt the hilt of a sword slam into his armored head and he fell to the ground, his helmet skittering of onto the cobblestone streets, stained red with blood. “Now!” Aren screamed, waving his hand for the trumpeter to see. A loud, clear blast of trumpet music filled the air, and the shouts of many soldiers filled the air as they ran from their hidden placements in the wall and rushed into the ranks of Black Knights with their spears, axes, and swords swinging and deadly. Captain Mertilan led the men, raising his sword high above his head and swinging it down in a deadly arc, finishing off a Black Knight. When the Captain reached Lucrid, the lord just raised his blood red sword and swung it. Mertialn ducked and swung at the lord's waist, but Lucrid countered the attack and thrust. Mertilan's mouth opened in an O as the blood red sword of Lord Lucrid plunged right into his chest. “NO! CAPTAIN!” Aren screamed, and the Captain responded by looking his way, managing a weak smile before falling off of the sword and onto the ground. Aren raised Nurr'tor and charged at Lucrid, fully intent on killing the lord, but stopped abruptly when his men called out, “No, General! Retreat to the Gardens; we can handle it here!” It took Aren a few seconds, but he realized that the voice came from the soldiers attacking Lucrid. “No!” Aren knew that when, if, he retreated, the men staying would die. He wouldn't leave when his men were brutally slaughtered. “Leave, General! Live and fight another day! Avenge us!” Aren turned and saw the majority of his men opening the stone doorway for their retreat. “Hurry, General! Captain Mertilan would want you to!” Aren nodded, sheathed Nurr'tor, and shouted, “I will avenge you, I swear!”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

frenziedmythology — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 20:21:35 -0500

Sorry, I should fix this. Whoops 1 Red flashes lit around Aren's head as fiery boulders smashed into the walls of the kingdom, tearing away at the them and leaving the archers dangling for their lives. The Black Knights were attacking. Aren, wearing silver armor and carrying a golden sword, watched as row upon row of archers stood on the walls, some tumbling down as they smashed, others holding on for dear life, and yet others firing their arrows into the sea of shiny black warriors. Wooden catapults were the source of the flaming boulders coming in to the kingdom, and Aren was trying to come up with a way to put an end to the contraptions. But when a knight bigger than all others appeared, he knew the plan was over. The huge warrior carried a red sword, seeming to gleam with blood. His shiny black armor stood out with his red cape, which fluttered in the cool breeze. But what caught Aren's eye in the warrior was the being's red sword. It had stripes of black, but most of the blade was a deep blood red. It had curves that went up, and the bottom stayed sharpened. It truly was a weapon of pure evil. And who would wield it, except for the evil Lord Lucrid. The name, when Aren thought of it, caused a rippling through his mind, fear making its way into Aren's head and plaguing him. “Everyone!” Aren called, raising his golden sword high above his head. “Be ready! They're coming!” Soldiers unsheathed their swords and shook themselves out of their own fear. The yelling sounds of the Black Knights as they charged toward the ruined kingdom walls were terrifying. Aren gazed out upon his troops, and once again raised his voice. “Archers, take aim!” The elven archers on the walls obeyed by taking a shaft out of their loaded quiver, notching it into the bow string, and then pulling back the bow string as far as it would allow. “Be ready!” The archers selected various targets, and followed the Black Knights with their superb aim. “Fire!” The archers released the first volley, and the arrows launched full speed into their targets, killing the first two lines of charging Black Knights. “Fire at will!” Aren said, causing the archers to take aim and fire once more, and then again. The catapults of the enemy fired more boulders, and so almost the whole wall fell. The screams of the archers as they fell off of the wall and to their deaths stuck with Aren, though he tried to ignore them. “General Aren!” a soldier saluted. “Yes, Captain Mertilan?” “My troops are ready. Whenever you are, tell the trumpeter to blow the trumpet.” “Very good, Captain. We'll be needing you shortly. Join your ranks until summoned.” Captain Mertilan saluted again and left, walking through a stone doorway and then closing a door behind him. “They're coming. . .” Aren muttered, trying to wipe the nervous sweat off of his palms whilst still holding his golden sword, Nurr'tor. Aren walked over to part of the fallen wall, walked on top of it, and noticed Lord Lucrid being given a black shield with the head of a red dragon sprouting from the top, and a black forked tongue sticking out. Aren leaped down from the fallen rocks and ran back to his forces. “Archers, be ready! They're here!” Aren shouted as he brought Nurr'tor up and pulled on a silver helmet. “Charge!” The Black Knights ran over the fallen walls and charged at the warriors Aren was leading. Clang! Clash! The two armies' swords met in the air, and Aren countered his adversary's with a parry and then a quick thrust through the chest. Aren ran through the armies, trying to reach Lucrid, ignoring the blood splattering on him from falling Black Knights and his own warriors. Suddenly, he felt the hilt of a sword slam into his armored head and he fell to the ground, his helmet skittering of onto the cobblestone streets, stained red with blood. “Now!” Aren screamed, waving his hand for the trumpeter to see. A loud, clear blast of trumpet music filled the air, and the shouts of many soldiers filled the air as they ran from their hidden placements in the wall and rushed into the ranks of Black Knights with their spears, axes, and swords swinging and deadly. Captain Mertilan led the men, raising his sword high above his head and swinging it down in a deadly arc, finishing off a Black Knight. When the Captain reached Lucrid, the lord just raised his blood red sword and swung it. Mertialn ducked and swung at the lord's waist, but Lucrid countered the attack and thrust. Mertilan's mouth opened in an O as the blood red sword of Lord Lucrid plunged right into his chest. “NO! CAPTAIN!” Aren screamed, and the Captain responded by looking his way, managing a weak smile before falling off of the sword and onto the ground. Aren raised Nurr'tor and charged at Lucrid, fully intent on killing the lord, but stopped abruptly when his men called out, “No, General! Retreat to the Gardens; we can handle it here!” It took Aren a few seconds, but he realized that the voice came from the soldiers attacking Lucrid. “No!” Aren knew that when, if, he retreated, the men staying would die. He wouldn't leave when his men were brutally slaughtered. “Leave, General! Live and fight another day! Avenge us!” Aren turned and saw the majority of his men opening the stone doorway for their retreat. “Hurry, General! Captain Mertilan would want you to!” Aren nodded, sheathed Nurr'tor, and shouted, “I will avenge you, I swear!”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

andrew.mack — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 23:42:14 -0500

I want in on this. For the next person who comes along, please have a bit of patience while I take an axe to frenziedmythology's excerpt. And if anyone got skipped on accident, PLEASE DO NOT HESITATE to PM me, and I'll do the same for you free of charge!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

andrew.mack — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 00:12:28 -0500

Frenziedmythos, First of all, good work. I could find not a single issue concerning syntax or grammar. (One typo... Lord Mertilian's name was misspelled). So instead, I simply provided alternatives, offered in brackets. Let me also say that this piece was very high tempo, and I was glued to the action probably due mainly to your conveyance of a realistic military structure. If I had one suggestion, I would request a bit more humanization of the characters. I'm sure we will learn about them more deeply later on, but they did seem a bit cookie-cutter in the traditional swords-and-sorcery setting. Perhaps a bit more exposition on the history between your general and captain. Either way, you rocked it bro. 1 Red flashes lit around Aren's head as fiery boulders smashed into the walls of the kingdom, [lashing against them like a demonic force and] leaving the archers dangling for their lives. The Black Knights were attacking. Aren, wearing silver armor and carrying a golden sword, watched as [some their ground], some [plunged to their fate] and others fir[ed] their arrows into the sea of shiny black warriors. Wooden catapults were the source of the flaming boulders [that hammered] the kingdom, and Aren was trying to come up with a way to put an end to the contraptions. But when a knight bigger than all others appeared, he knew [it was hopeless]. The huge warrior carried a red sword, seeming to gleam with blood. His shiny black armor stood out with his red cape, which fluttered in the cool breeze. But what caught Aren's eye in the warrior was the being's red sword. It had stripes of black, but most of the blade was a deep blood red. It had curves that went up, and the [edge never dulled]. [What astonishing evil]. And who would wield it, except for the evil Lord Lucrid[?] The name, when Aren thought of it, caused a rippling through his mind, fear [worming] its way into Aren's head and plaguing him. “Everyone!” Aren called, raising his golden sword high above his head. “Be ready! [It is time]!” Soldiers unsheathed their swords and shook themselves out of their own fear. The yelling sounds of the Black Knights as they charged toward the ruined kingdom walls were terrifying. Aren gazed out upon his troops, and once again raised his voice. “Archers, take aim!” The elven archers on the walls obeyed by taking a shaft out of their loaded quiver, notching it into the bow string, and then pulling back the bow string as far as it would allow. “Be ready!” The archers selected various targets, and followed the Black Knights with their superb aim. “Fire!” The archers released the first volley, and the arrows launched full speed into their targets, killing the first two lines of charging Black Knights. “Fire at will!” Aren said, causing the archers to take aim and fire once more, and then again. The catapults of the enemy fired more boulders, and so almost the whole wall fell. The screams of the archers as they fell off of the wall and to their deaths [lanced through] Aren, though he tried to ignore them. “General Aren!” a soldier saluted. “Yes, Captain Mertilan?” “My troops are ready. Whenever you are, tell the trumpeter to [sound] the trumpet.” “Very good, Captain. We'll be needing you shortly. Join your ranks until summoned.” Captain Mertilan saluted again and left, walking through a stone doorway and then closing a door behind him. “They're coming. . .” Aren muttered, trying to wipe the nervous sweat off of his palms whilst still holding his golden sword, Nurr'tor. Aren walked over to part of the fallen wall, [shimmied along the] top of it, and noticed Lord Lucrid being given a black shield with the head of a red dragon sprouting from the top, and a black forked tongue sticking out. Aren leaped down from the fallen rocks and ran back to his forces. “Archers, be ready! They're here!” Aren shouted as he brought Nurr'tor up and pulled on a silver helmet. “Charge!” The Black Knights ran over the fallen walls and charged at the warriors Aren was leading. Clang! Clash! The two armies' swords met in the air, and Aren countered his adversary's with a parry and then a quick thrust through the chest. Aren ran through the armies, trying to reach Lucrid, ignoring the blood splattering on him from falling Black Knights and his own warriors. Suddenly, he felt the hilt of a sword slam into his armored head and he fell to the ground, his helmet skittering of onto the cobblestone streets, stained red with blood. “Now!” Aren screamed, waving his hand for the trumpeter to see. A loud, clear blast of trumpet [fanfare] filled the air, and the shouts of many soldiers filled the air as they ran from their hidden placements in the wall and rushed into the ranks of Black Knights with their spears, axes, and swords swinging and deadly. Captain Mertilan led the men, raising his sword high above his head and swinging it down in a deadly arc, finishing off a Black Knight. When the Captain reached Lucrid, the lord just raised his blood red sword and swung it. Mertila ducked and swung at the lord's waist, but Lucrid countered the attack and thrust. Mertilan's mouth opened in an O as the blood red sword of Lord Lucrid plunged right into his chest. “NO! CAPTAIN!” Aren screamed, and the Captain responded by looking his way, managing a weak smile before falling off of the sword and onto the ground. Aren raised Nurr'tor and charged at Lucrid, fully intent on killing the lord, but stopped abruptly when his men called out, “No, General! Retreat to the Gardens; we can handle it here!” It took Aren a few seconds, but he realized that the voice came from the soldiers attacking Lucrid. “No!” Aren knew that when, if, he retreated, the men staying would die. He wouldn't leave when his men were brutally slaughtered. “Leave, General! Live and fight another day! Avenge us!” Aren turned and saw the majority of his men opening the stone doorway for their retreat. “Hurry, General! Captain Mertilan would want you to!” Aren nodded, sheathed Nurr'tor, and shouted, “I will avenge you, I swear!”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

boondockkid1016 — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 01:04:29 -0500

I need a critique on my first chapter of my novel here. There are things I think are wrong with it, but the most important is that I am giving away too much information between a couple of characters. I am not writing a full novel but a short story. Sephira looked out from the cash register. It was raining. The drops falling ever so elegantly down the glass windows of the café as if they were dancers performing a graceful ballet. She brushes her black hair aside from covering her face. The café wasn’t busy today, so Sephira took a quick look around. Mostly regulars were sitting in the soft lounge chairs, drinking their coffees, reading the paper, typing on their laptops, or texting on their phones. A few stuck out, the man in a black coat who always orders a London fog tea, and reads the daily newspaper. Sephira smiled. He always left a five dollar bill as a tip. There were two young women similar in age to Sephira, but they were very preppy dressed in Prada clothes and Douche and Gabana purses. They were always texting each other though they were two feet from each other. There was a teacher, Ms Alba, who drank black coffee while marking her students’ schoolwork. “What are you staring at?” Berenice asked. Berenice was shorter than the tall Sephira. She had a gentle look with her round face and brown eyes. When Sephira started at the café, Berenice became one of her closest and best of friends. Leaning over the counter still staring out at the rain, Sephira didn’t even look at Berenice. “Nothing. Just the rain.” Berenice nodded at the clock. “Well it’s almost time for the night shift to show up.” Sephira looked at the clock. It was three-fifty. She would be done in ten minutes, well unless the night shift wasn’t late again. She looked over at the customers. The man in the black coat got up and left a five dollar bill on the table. He smiled and nodded to Sephira. She smiled back and grabbed a cloth and spray bottle. She smiled at Berenice while she cleaned the table and picked up the small plate. “Well it looks like Mike is going to be late again.” Sephira pointed at the clock. Berenice laughed. “No surprise. Oh well. Hey, are you doing anything after work? Cause there is this movie at the theatre at seven that I wanted to see.” Sephira shook her head. “Sure, I’d love to go. But I have to clean my apartment so I have to go home first.” “Are you sure you want to be walking in all this rain?” Berenice threw a look of concern. Sephira laughed. “Yeah, I’ll be ok. I’m only a few blocks away. If the rain still keeps up, you can pick me up at seven though.” Berenice smiled. “Sure.” Mike ended up showing up five after four. Sephira was happy though that he had arrived. She grabbed her coat and her umbrella and made her way home. There was hardly anyone on the street, the cars rolling by throwing water onto the sidewalk when their tires struck a puddle. Thunder and lightning filled the darkened skies. Sephira crossed over into an alley, her apartment just ahead on the other side. As she made her way down the alley, a cold chill rolled down her back. The alley was empty and the streets outside were quiet, no cars, no people; just the roar of the thunder and the clash of the lightening. She walked slowly, her muscles clinched and her umbrella held close; her hands clenching onto it for dear life regretting not getting that ride from Berenice. Though alert, skittish almost, Sephira never saw the board crack across the back of her head. Blackness came next. It moved silently, close to the shadows of the buildings. A shadow, a ghost it was. It moved up the side of a building, passing close to windows and short balconies. The rain never bothered it. It was used to the rain. It also didn’t fear of being seen, or spotted by some curious kid or a weird conspiracy nut. Inside it chuckled; she had seen enough of those over the years. Besides if anyone saw it, they would only see a small cloud of grey smoke. Nothing suspicious at all. Only the Faith would spot it and the last thing it wanted was to be seen by them. Fortunately, the Faith hadn’t been seen for a few months now. It came to the top of the building and stayed close to the smoke stacks as they hid it truly. It slithered across and came to the end of the roof with an alley below. It made her way down the building into the alley. "Ahh, quiet. That’s comforting." Something made it stop dead and skulk back to the darkness of the shadows. It couldn’t see as the great monkeys could with eyes, but it could feel heat. Not the heat of a vent or an engine, but of a living creature. But the heat was fading fast. Damn it. I can’t keep moving. Something must be hurt bad. It felt it’s way to the heat source. It could tell from the heat that it was a monkey." It’s dying. Can’t break the Code. But I can’t leave it here to die. I have no choice and the others should understand that." It entered the body through the mouth, nose and ears. It filled up the lungs and encircled the brain. It had a better idea of what happened. Apparently, this monkey had been struck on the back of the head and blood was coming out of it’s head." Alright, I know what to do." With all it’s strength, the wound healed and closed. The lungs filled with air as the smoke moved all over the body, waking it up." What are you? What do the monkeys call you?" Piercing through it’s memories and thoughts, it found what it needed. "Ah, there it is. Hello Sephira, I am called Eris.” Sephira awoke in her bed with a cold cloth on her forehead. “Ugh, how did I end up here.” She was out of her work clothes and in a light t shirt and sweatpants. She couldn’t remember getting herself into bed. Sephira checked the clock. It read eight-thirty. “Oh my god, I forgot. Shit! Berenice is going to kill me.” “No she won’t. I called her and told her that you weren’t feeling too well.” Sephira stopped dead in her tracks. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone here?” She checked her hallway. The apartment looked empty. “Yes? Hello.” She stopped again, this time grabbing her umbrella. She walked to her bathroom to hide. “I must have been hit harder than I thought. I’m hearing voices.” “You’re not crazy silly. You’re just carrying some extra baggage.” Sephira could hear laughing in her head. She dropped the umbrella and ran cold water from her tap in the bathroom. She splashed her face with water and wiped it with a cloth. She looked into the mirror. “Still feel crazy?” Sephira threw her hands over her mouth. Those words came from her own mouth. “Who are you?” She was still staring at the mirror. The face in the mirror began to laugh. That was her laugh though. “I saved your life silly girl.” “What happened to me?” Sephira started to breathe heavily. “You were hit in the head. Looks like a robbery. They took your purse. I came across you. You were bleeding a lot and would have died. I saved you by joining with you.” Sephira put her hands in her head and shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you?” Suddenly without warning, Sephira took her head out of her hands and walked to the kitchen. She opened up a cabinet and pulled out a kettle. She filled it with water and placed it on the stove. “Sorry dear, but this is going to take a while to process. I will fill you in, but I have always felt that tea makes things go down smoother." She took out a can of tea. “Very nice, earl grey.” As she went through the fridge and pulled out cheese and biscuits, the kettle screamed. She mixed the earl grey, the hot kettle water and cream together. Then toasted the biscuits, buttered them and placed a slice of cheese in between the bread. Sephira sat at the table and took a sip of tea. “Ok, I am going to give you control of your body again, but you have to promise not to lose it again. You swear?” “I swear.” Sephira replied. Suddenly, Sephira could move her body again. The experience felt weird like an autopilot. “What is your name? Or did you take mine as well.” The voice in her head replied. “Eat some of the biscuits. Try the tea, it is so nice. My name is not yours though we share the same body. I am known as Eris.” “Eris? What kind of name is that?” Sephira said between bites. “Don’t talk with your mouth full. You monkeys are such a rude species. No wonder mine find it so easy to share your bodies.” Sephira was trying to take this in as best she could. “Wait, wait. Are you saying that there are others like you?” “Of course there are others like me. Not many left though. I was left behind a long time ago.” Sephira was starting to get impatient. “You still haven’t answered my question. What are you?” She could hear the same chuckling in her head. "Silly girl, my name is Eris. I am a jinn, a creature of ash and smoke. I was once worshipped by your ancestors as the goddess of discord. No idea why, I tried to help your ancestors but they just weren’t getting what I was teaching them." “Slow down. Are you telling me that you are a god of some kind?” “No no. Your ancestors took me and others like me as gods when we ruled here. We were called gods because we taught your reading, writing, agriculture, the wheel, animal husbandry as well as other skills. You were so fascinating back then. Nothing more than chimps from the trees” “So you are an old species?” “Yes, we evolved long before you did. We remember when your kind were still living in trees above the ground. We lived in caves and near volcanoes. Over time, we began to take your kind as hosts and we built the great empires of early human history. We taught you and you made us gods and kings.”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 02:15:41 -0500

Every five years since I was born, something had happened that forever changed my identity. On my fifth birthday, I caused a man’s death. Five years later, I befriended the fifty-two-year-old, watchmaker Claus Truman, and found redemption in the entails of watches. At the age of fifteen, I became the last girl in my class to get her period, and at twenty, Claus had deemed me fully capable of repairing even his Breguet Reveil du Tsar, and hired me to run his shop. Thus, at the age of twenty-five, I was a potentially lethal, petite woman and watchmaker, walking around on eggshells, wondering what would become of me next. Rain pattered steadily against the window in the backroom of the shop. I was sitting by the workbench, reassembling a wristwatch that had been brought in for cleaning. My eyes and fingers were tired. Only three costumers had braved the downpour, so I had been tinkering away in solitude for most of the day with a productivity to match Leonardo da Vinci’s. I positioned the barrel bridge, and threw a gaze at my own Omega. It showed ten past closing hour. In five minutes I was supposed to meet my friends, Caitlyn and Rick, at the pub, for our traditional Friday get-together. Concentration, I told myself. Rick and Caitlyn are always late. I pinched a tiny screw with my tweezers and brought it to the watch when suddenly the shopkeeper’s bell clattered in the other room. I started from my chair and the screw went flying across the room. A man’s husky voice called, “Hello? Is there anyone here?” His accent was impossible to place; perhaps a bit of Scottish. “Just a minute,” I called back and let out a lengthy exhale that puffed my cheeks and calmed my nerves. I discarded my vinyl gloves, and leaned back in the chair to peer out in the shop. A lithe man was standing with his back towards me, looking at the alarm clocks in one of the glass displays. Hello there, dark stranger, I mused, taking in the sight of his dark coat, ruffled black hair, and his closed umbrella that looked as if it had been dipped in oil. I tucked some loose strands of hair behind my ear, and tightened my ponytail. Then I walked out to greet him. The man heard me coming. He straightened his back, and turned around. You! A feeling of ice coursed through my vessels, and I stopped short, struck by the lightning in his electric blue eyes. The man was as pale and tousled as ever. His hair hung nonchalant around his head, the soft ends straggling in his neck and forehead. He had the same Five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes as when I had seen him last time. . . But when was that? During a split second – two oscillations of the balance wheel in my Omega -- I raked my memory for his name, but came up with nothing, except ‘deadly gorgeous,’ which didn’t exactly help in my current situation. “Hi,” he said, and behind the accent even the voice was his. I forced myself to act like a shopkeeper. “Hi. I -- I’m sorry, I’m about to close for today . . . but if there’s something quick I can help you with?” The man took a few steps towards me, and a new shiver rushed from my heart to my crown and fingertips. “My watch has stopped, and I had hoped you could take a look at it.” “Sure.” I fled in behind the cash register to put a barrier between me and the man. There I wet my dry lips, and placed my finger against the button for the hold-up alarm, ready to trigger it if the man meant to hurt me. “I just — Have we met before?” “No, I can’t imagine we have,” the man said, stepping up to the other side of the counter. “It’s my first time here in Oxford. First time in England actually.” He smiled a warm smile that gave life to his weary appearance. The gesture had the effect of an instant tranquiliser, and my high-sprung nerves slackened. I found myself feeling safe. Safe and snug. Who are you? As if he had heard my thought, he held out his right hand. “I’m Tom.” The name didn’t ring a bell. “I’m Hannah,” I said and shook his hand. He was cold from the rain, and his palm wet from holding the umbrella. “So, do you have the watch?” Tom took out a timepiece from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to me. It was a vintage pocket watch with a silvery case that was partly eroded where it had been scratched. The watch face was milk white as his complexion, and the elegant dial had the colour of his hair and marked eyebrows. A powder blue monogram made a weak comparison too his eyes. “Classy.” I grabbed a form for contact information and clicked a ballpoint pen open. “Tom, was it?” “Yes,” he said, and seemed to be dithering. He rubbed his neck, and peered at the watch on the counter. “How long time will it take to mend it, do you think?” “It all depends on what’s wrong with it. Could be anything from half an hour to a few days if I have to replace something. It’s a real chore to find replacement parts to old watches like yours, but I have a friend who could make anything you’d need.” I hovered with the pen over the line where I was supposed to write his surname. “I may not stay in Oxford for very long.” “I can have the clock sent to your permanent address. We’ve mail hundreds of watches since I started working here and we haven’t lost a single one.” “I think I’ll just have to be without time for a while,” Tom said. I looked up from the nearly blank form.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Laurence — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 12:48:33 -0500

I'll try, but this is my first time being a critic... Critique: I'll start by saying that I do think that this is quite well written. The thing is, it sort of feels like this would be better suited to be in the third person. But that's just my personal preference, with this sort of story. After we find out that the man is Tom, and not whoever Hannah was worried he might be, it sort of lost my interest. Everything up to that point at least seems relevant, to some extent; but then we go into this dialogue, that doesn't appear to have any relevance to anything. Maybe it does, later on, but in these 1000 words, it just seems like "filler dialogue", to me. I don't think that going on about what may or may not be wrong with the watch, or what the man's details are, help the story in any way. At least, it doesn't help it from what I can see in these 1000 words. Also, I find it incredibly unlikely that a watchmaker and a customer, two strangers, would just randomly tell each other their names. Try to make it realistic. Think, have you ever just gone into a store and told the staff member your name. Even though she asked him if they had met before, I still don't think it's likely that he'd tell her his name, without being prompted. Maybe he's just really friendly, or maybe you should probably change this. Honestly, that introduction at the beginning, about Hannah's history, intrigued me more than the rest of it. I'm not saying that it's bad, because it's not; all I'm saying is that without more to go on, this doesn't exactly grab my attention. Genre and age group: I honestly do not have a clue. Maybe it's a thriller or suspense story? (Since there's someone she knows, that might be dangerous.) Shelve it or buy it: It's not my kind of thing. I'd shelve it. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): I think it's well written, but just not to my taste. B

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Laurence — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 13:32:22 -0500

No one is even listening to the teacher. I mean, really, it’s history. Who the hell cares what happened in the past? If I bother to lift my head up from the desk and look around, I would find kids with their headphones on; their PDAs out, texting and calling; or just sitting with their heads slumped on the desk, bored out of their minds. Mr. Francis doesn’t care; after all, at the end of the day, he still gets paid. What does he care what a bunch of twelve-year-olds do with their future. I certainly know that mine is not going to involve history. Tracy is sitting on my desk, chattering away, thinking that I care about a single word that she’s saying. She may be my friend, but god, does she go on about the most pointless crap. “—but did you hear about Kerri and Harris? Kerri and Harris! How is that ever going to work out? I mean, she’s—how do you even deal with something that complicated. Yeah, sure, she’s a girl… now. But with her abilities developing, and her transforming from girl to boy, at random—” “Trace, please don’t go there,” I mumble, into my desk. I don’t even know who these people are. She does this all the time, though; she’s reasonably popular and keeps forgetting which of her friends I know, which is hardly any. I’m not saying that I’m a total outcast, because I’m not. With what my mum does, I constantly get told how cool it must be to have a mum who is a highly successful, and well known hero; stopping crimes in progress, effortlessly eliminating dangerous crime lords, and thwarting the hundreds of psychotic villains who think that they’re powerful enough to force themselves into power, and “control” the country, before they’re quickly killed, and never heard from again. I keep getting told how cool that must be, but then there’s the flipside. My mum didn’t always used to go it alone. She had a team. A team who were all found dead in their houses because they screwed with someone they shouldn’t have. Being a successful hero—as much as the media would love to disagree—is not an attractive career path to go down. And the people that come up to me and ask if I want to be just like my mum when I’m older, I ignore. I glance up when I realise that Tracy hasn’t talked in the last five seconds. I’d love to say that I’d be joking if I said that it’s a new record for her… in class, anyway. The ginger haired girl has her amber eyes narrowed at me. “I really need to introduce you to more of my friends.” Her head cocks to the side, while I just raise an eyebrow at her, not that she’ll even see me do it; my hair—well, let’s just say that it’s not exactly what most would call socially acceptable. It literally looks like I just got out of bed and got hit by a tornado, making the black mess that is my hair. Personally, I like it, and my mum lets me go out like this, so that’s all that matters, right. “No offence Trace, but there are very few people that I would actually want to be friends with. Most of your friends don’t make that list.” It’s not meant to come across as an insult to her, but knowing her, that’s how she’ll take it. Her narrowed eyes quickly form a piercing, fiery glare, and if she didn’t do this to me so much, it’d probably send shivers through me. “No, no, it’s nothing against you or your friends, I just prefer to be close to as few people as possible.” And that’s the truth. So what? I have a problem with being social; shoot me. The lesson passed by far too slowly. A few people jumped in their seats when the final bell rang, to go home. “Oh my god, Tay, this is gonna be so cool!” Tracy started. “I bet there’s gonna be like some super secret lair in your basement, right? I bet you have like so many weapons on the walls. I bet you know how to throw knives, just like Sentient.” Sentient, otherwise known as Erin Ashley, or, as I like to call her, mum. Tracy is sleeping over at mine tonight, and she’s starting to make wild assumptions of what my home life is actually like. I’m not surprised that most of what she’s guessing is true, because most heroes do have a “secret lair”, better known as their basements; most heroes do have a weapon of choice, my mum’s being throwing knives. I’ve always wondered why people don’t just use guns instead, surely it would be much simpler. But I don’t question peoples methods of killing. From an outside perspective, I guess “secret lairs” in your basement, and weapon displays all over your walls, isn’t exactly normal, and might even be considered “cool”. Tracy’s excitement at what I consider everyday living makes me laugh, as we head out through the school gates. We get into mum’s hover car, me in the front, Tracy in the back. “Hello, Tracy, is it?” mum asks, as the engine starts and the hover rises off of the ground. I turn around to find a wide-eyed Tracy, staring at the back of my mum’s head. I roll my eyes and address mum. “Yeah, she’s Tracy.” Leaning in closer, I whisper in her ear, “And she’s kind of a… fan.” She smiles at that, as she stares straight ahead, at the traffic in the sky. “Well, it’s nice to finally meet you Tracy.” “N—Nice to meet you,” Tracy says. It comes out breathy and rushed. My mum, the ‘celebrity’. She doesn’t flaunt her success as a hero, as most people would. She’s not wearing unnecessarily expensive dresses, or jewellery that comes across as overly flashy; she doesn’t exactly have an eccentric car, and she’s down to earth. Of course, that’s just a daughter’s opinion… and the right one.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 22:56:58 -0500

[Due to the way the story I write is shaped, it technically has two "first chapters," as it were. This is the first part of the third person perspective. I recieved some incredibly useful tips in its editing already (I'd like to say thank you for that), I simply want to get a better feel of how the imagery is flowing.] The halls were filled with an incredible amount of splendor, riches that would make even the hearts of kings palpitate with envy. It was old money, one might say, laced with an ancient quality that lent the already monumental building a feeling of nearly oppressive power. Rippling red tapestries lined the polished rock walls, smooth and soft as silk, reminiscent of water flowing down the side of a mountain. Grand paintings, detailed with an expert brush, seemed to watch and follow the passerby with eyes that nearly jumped off the canvas with their own life. From the first to the last, they depicted a family line, or so one might deduce, for their noble features were nearly identical in every portrait, the family resemblance rarely deviating in their finely boned faces. Crystalline chandeliers hung low from high-domed ceilings, catching the light in their suspended shards and scattering it in iridescent streaks down to the royal blue carpet below. Wide windows, punctuated with stained glass depictions of soaring dragons and various effigies of the gods, interspersed the stone to make the heavy Gothic masonry somewhat lighter. It was into these halls that Larken, firstborn of the Regent of Plinar, wandered. The massive oaken doors opened wide before him with a resounding thud, echoing down through the many cavernous passageways in a way that almost seemed sacrilegiously disruptive. The violent carvings along the surface of those doors had bothered him ever since he was a child; people being mauled by animals and battles being fought, all immortalized in varnished wood. Not the brightest nor cheeriest things to be certain, yet one could not help but note the talent of the sculptor whose hands had crafted this piece of morbid artwork. Following a summons, the taciturn boy hastened quickly along the carpeted expanse, his footsteps muffled. His eyes were anchored to the floor, a forced posture of humbleness as he made his way quickly past the material splendor. He had seen it all many times before, and was no longer fazed by the oppressive atmosphere. There was something about the paintings, though, that bothered him, another reason for his refusal to raise his gaze. Those many acrylic visages glared at his back as he passed, mocking him. He imagined their hushed whispers, false conspiracies muttered by painted lips. Not good enough, they said. Not good enough to be a Regent's son. Mottled one. Unworthy one. Larken's fingers danced along his high collar, tugging it closer to his jawline. His face as a whole was not unpleasant, simply disenchanting from what most expected of the Regent's son. Bright green eyes, keen and always focused on his surroundings, stood out against his pale skin, and his hair, black in color, had an almost endearingly unkempt appeal to it. The presence of dark circles beneath those vivid eyes made it evident that he was given to entertaining frequent and thorough ponderings, despite his age. Or that he was simply prone to insomnia. Though he was only eighteen years in age, the presence of a line between his brows told of a nearly constant worrying. Even as he walked, those brows were pinched together, and the corners of his mouth were curved downward in a faint grimace. It would not be difficult to lose oneself in this place. The halls were spacious, yes, but they were labyrinthine in design. Door after door lead into varied parlors and bedrooms and dining areas, with little indication on their surface as to what precisely lay behind them. And though each the twin of the other, they still proclaimed loudly the fastidiousness of the proprietor, for the wood was polished to a dull glow, and the knobs all resembled purest gold. Only when one was aware that the wings had been built with specific housing niceties in mind and that each contained living spaces or kitchens, respectively, did navigation become manageable. Time seemed halted here. Larken always found the disillusionment eerie, even though he'd been born and raised in these very halls. He preferred the wide open spaces of the courtyard and beyond, where the air was fresh and the space was bountiful. He felt trapped here, trapped in yards of fine linen and jeweled filigree. Unwanted, an intruder that would certainly be expelled at any given moment. The very building cried out in agony at his trespassing; the entire manor surely wanted to heave and retch him from its bowels before he could do any more disgraceful damage. Mottled one, it mocked, teasing his imperfections with its lavishness. The red, raised flesh upon his neck burned, a phantom sensation that traveled down his arm where the rest of the ruddy markings resided. He rubbed at them vigorously through his tunic and walked faster. After what seemed an eternity, he arrived at another of doors. Wrought painstakingly in cast iron, upon their surface was rendered with image of a monstrous sra, its sinewy wings out at full span, tiny rubies glistening in the carved eye sockets, red as blood. The claws seemed the protrude out towards those wishing entrance, coming to a cruel point, and Larken had the strangest sensation that at any moment they could rip free of their metal casting and eviscerate him where he stood. The fangs of the sra were menacing, the snout feline-like and elongated in an unnatural way. The hindquarters of the image were heavily muscled, allowing it to rise upwards while its spindly, groping forelegs jutted forward. A psychological ploy, of course. Sra were mythical creatures said to have the capacity to see anything, both external and internal, the ability to see into the soul. In essence it was meant to frighten any visitor who might be in possession of harmful secrets. I see you, the metal sentinel said. I see your heart, and I know your intentions.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ElliMelody — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 22:08:30 -0500

At first, everything looked the same. The same forest, stretching endlessly ahead of me. The same fields, half-plowed from the day’s early harvests. The same chilly night air, despite it being Harvest. It was always cold at night. But this night, this wretched night, a new warmth swept into the breeze, bringing along the scents of burning wood, the sound of crackling flames lapping stones, and as I turned my head, the destruction was obvious. On the familiar hill before me, the village glowed with an unnatural orange, shining in the night sky like a torch. I was surprised to see stars, although I don’t know why. They domed over my head, like a circle. Circles aren't supposed to break; they're supposed to go around and around at a dizzying rate, and not spin out of control like this. I used to compare my life to a circle, but now I wasn't sure that it was the right term. The trees were a circle too, locking me tight within them as the flames engulfed my village. There had been a time when I could trust anyone, with the innocent assurance of a child’s naive mind. Now, I could barely trust myself. I stared into their glowing depths, my heart pumping as the smoke billowing down the hill stung at my eyes. I hadn’t known how far I would go, or could go, but this had to be it. How could I go farther then this; burning the village full of the people I thought I had loved? Most people would close their eyes and cower in fear, try to pretend this wasn't happening. Not me though; I simply watched it all go down, not even flinching once. Most bad guys turn out to be the quiet blacksmith, or the mean old farmer, or the rich guy you used to know, or that lady you thought was just some nice old person buying flour, or the rather obvious thief. But what if the bad guy, the horrible person who you have to fight? What if it's yourself? I only had him to blame. I wasn’t born that way; cruel, and willing to set my beloved village on fire. Alright, that was for their own good, even if they didn’t see it, but I’m sure that if I had the inclination to try, I could have found a better, less deadly way to shut them up. But that was where he came in. It was how he taught me, how I was raised. I didn’t see it at first; the way he treated me, the way he watched me and hid me most of my life. For as long as I could remember, he had truly been the only one there for me. I had respected him, enough to call him “Papa,” even though I knew he really wasn’t my father. I could still remember the orphan’s home, if only barely. Just enough that, when asked, I could tell people the real truth, not one distorted by a child’s forgotten memories. It was how I ended up there that was the real mystery. For the longest time, it was the only unknown in my life. I always knew the sun would rise, and that Papa would be there with a slice of bread for breakfast. I would go to lessons with Mara, and come back to find him waiting for me. We would have lunch, I would do my chores, and then it would be time for supper. It was never changing. I liked it that way. Papa did too. It wasn’t until a few years ago that he began to act differently around me. He began to have a shorter temper, and he began to challenge nearly everything I said. I didn’t fight back, not at first. My silence just seemed to provoke him, though, and it only got worse. He became more of a disciplinarian. I began to sink farther into my own mind, choosing to hide everything from him. I knew that was why he had changed. I never should have told him, but somehow, I felt he already knew. I was changing too, in ways I didn’t understand. Ways I knew weren’t normal. I began to see things, hear things, as if looking through eyes that weren’t my own. I then knew things I probably shouldn’t have. I saw things I probably shouldn’t have seen. I was afraid, and Papa was the only one I trusted enough to help me. It was that night, the one I told him, where he first became changed. “Who else have you told?“ He yelled at me, shaking me. Hard. “Nobody.” I replied, my voice shaking and tears already streaming down my face. His grip loosened, but he didn’t let go. I just wanted him to let go. “Don’t tell anyone. Not Mara, not any of the townspeople, alright Cosette?” He said. His voice was forcibly gentle, but I could still hear the evil hiding in the edges. I could only nod, thrown speechless by his harsh actions. The next day, he took me out of my lessons, saying he felt I wasn’t learning enough and that he would teach me himself. He did teach me, but it wasn’t anything like what I learned with Mara. He taught me strange things. He told me it was important history, things I should have been taught in my old lessons, but that some people didn’t believe in them. The Shadowkeepers, that is. He taught me a lot about them using this big book I wasn’t allowed to touch, with a cover of a faded maroon leather that made it stand out on the highest part of the bookshelf, but only to someone looking. Everyday, he would read me the same thing. Long ago, there were thousands of them, he would say. Each had his own special power, and something to keep them from overusing it. A limitation. It was like making bread without flour, he would say; impossible. The Shadowkeepers used these powers to do evil. They destroyed cities, overthrew kingdoms. Then, a man came with this book, The Book of Secrets, Papa called it. The man set a spell on the Shadowkeepers. Every time they did evil, it would hurt them, and give the man power. The man was next in line to be king, and would use that power to help his kingdom. It would also make him immortal, so his kingdom would live wealthy for a long time. Papa said the spell also caused the Shadowkeepers to appear less frequently then before. He said that afterwards, they were quite rare. At first, I saw these stories of Shadowkeepers as fairy tales; legends that someone made up long ago. During that time, Papa was easily frustrated with me. I used to voice my opinion on the Shadowkeepers’ tales, and he would yell at me and punish me. I ultimately fell silent, choosing to keep my opinions to myself while showing no response to his stories. Eventually, he told me the truth; that I was a Shadowkeeper. It was then that I fully understood my power. I could put myself in other people’s bodies, look through their eyes and see their thoughts. Papa taught me how to use my power. He helped me learn how to control it, and how to gather information that I desired. He started with people I knew well. I learned that Mara was seeing a merchant boy against her parents will, and that they didn’t know. I found out Silvester had poisoned all his children, and watched him kill another (apparently, he never really loved his wife, and preferred the children produced from an affair with a gypsy lady he had met years before.) Everything I learned, I despised. I hated taking people’s thoughts and actions. I hated knowing. There was one person I was never allowed to use my ability on. Papa. He told me he had learned a trick, years ago, that kept things like that out of his mind. I tried, once, and ended up blacking out. It took all my strength away, and I couldn’t see anything. That was at the very beginning, when it sapped my strength to see anything at all. I never tried again though, not the whole time I lived with him, and for a while afterwards. We would sit for hours at a time, him naming off people, and me looking through their eyes. We learned the limitations of my power. I could only see through the eyes of people I had touched. The more recently I came in contact, the easier it was to use them. At first, I would struggle to keep conscious when seeing people I hadn’t touched in years, but it soon became easier. After a while, I could visit whoever I wanted. It would still sap my strength, but it was no longer difficult to stay awake afterwards. It became almost effortless to see people I had touched recently, or multiple times. Sometimes, I even found myself doing it without trying, something I hadn’t dreamed of doing before.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

GinoMolinari — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 03:13:17 -0500

Part 1: Fate Chapter 1 I have often found myself unable in this life to elaborate upon my thoughts to anyone save a select few and that is why I have waited so far into my existence to tell the story I am about tell. The exact portion of my experience that I am going to talk about now takes place about forty-three years ago and spans the time from my early childhood in the American West until my adventures in the American South and will highlight my personal triumphs as well as my personal tragedies. I was born in 1868 the first son of an English aristocrat who had married a Russian seamstress. They had met each other in a little Eastern European villa and fallen madly in love or so I am told. My father being brought to the villa on business with his father at the time was forced to propose marriage rather quickly and brought home his Russian bride to be to an astonished family, who in turn threw them out within a month’s time. My father was then forced to move the family, by that time my parents had conceived me their first child, to America and started a small farm with hopes of succeeding in the real world. My early childhood was stressed to say the least and I left their home for the first time when I was eleven for a Victorian boarding school in England. It was there that I was lessoned in the knowledge thought important for a young man such as myself to know in this day in age. I was versed in the classics of literature, everything from Plato to Shakespeare to Dickens. I was taught manners and how to carry myself when placed in cordial and high class company. At the start of my third year at boarding school I began inquires into physical and biological sciences as well as advanced mathematics, and by the time I had graduated and was eventually sent back to the farm that my family clung to I was far and away the best educated man within one hundred miles. The farm had been exactly how I had left it, small and unprofitable. My parents were all but too happy in welcoming back their first born child and proudest achievement. It was only later that I came to understand that the reason the farm suffered so and was unable to expand was that my father had invested all of his current wealth into my education. I was to return and save the family farm with my newly acquired worldliness and was told so many times after my arrival. To make matters even more stressful for a boy who had not yet reached the age of 16, my homecoming was also met with the addition of two younger brothers and one sister. With so much depending upon my success, I had begun contemplating flight within the first week of my homecoming. It wasn’t however until a chance encounter with a traveling band of lowlifes that the key to my escape made itself available to me. I had been advertising my services here and there throughout the towns closest to my families homestead for two and one half months when I first met up with Randle Mortimer and his band. After many unsuccessful attempts at acquiring full time service in return for steady pay, I had been wallowing in my sorrows at Black Jack’s Saloon in the small town of Buford, WY. The barkeep, who I had just recently finished a grand amount of bookkeeping for, had just paid me my meager payment and I was adamant in taking my share of it in bourbon before taking the rest to my family. It was in the early spring as I recall, perhaps May as the snow was not completely gone from the surrounding mountains, and a roaring fire was ablaze in the corner. A handful of men were gathered around its warmth and nobody else occupied the small saloon other than the barkeep and me. The door had flown open as if the breath of god almighty had laid siege to it and standing in the now vacant doorway was the most interesting man I had ever seen. He was flanked on each side by men who seemed as big as the Rocky Mountains themselves, spurs clanking against the warped floorboards, six shooters hanging from either hip. The man in the center wore a single pistol slung across his midsection, and as he passed the fire its ivory handle shone brightly and inlays of gold glinted in the dimmed saloon. The three of them wore dusters of the blackest fabric I had ever seen over the top of what seemed to me at the time even darker shirt fabric. Their faces were obscured by kerchiefs and nothing about them was visible or discernible to the occupants of the saloon save the pure white ivory around the middle man’s midsection. As they approached the bar where I sat gripping tight my glass of bourbon, the scant few who had been surrounding the meager fire in the corner quickly exited the saloon in the quietest manner possible. They made their way over to the barkeeper, who had by now produced three glasses, and sat to the direct left of myself at the bar. The weight with which the two mountainous men hit their stools caused the floor to shake and give warning of its limited strength. I was very careful not to make eye contact with the mysterious and undoubtedly dangerous troop of men, but was compelled by my limited experience with such people to steal glances whenever was convenient. I had spent my entire life surrounded by the most dignified members of high society, educators, and of course my own family. The prospect of men such as were sitting to my left was queer to me and seemed almost surreal. I had heard tales of such men living in the untamed Western United States since I was a small boy, but like the deepest jungles of South America and the sprawling deserts of Africa I had heard about them all my life but never had I encountered them. “What’ll be gents?” The barkeeper began after the harsh moments of silence had run their course, “Whiskey then?” The man with the ivory pistol nodded silently and the barkeeper filled their glasses with bright red Kentucky liquor. The three of them downed their glasses immediately and the man in the middle pounded the bar with his glass, signaling for more. The three men in black downed four shots of the whiskey each before any of them made a sound, a sound that I myself had wished at the time to never hear.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 15:12:21 -0500

I jumped at the sound of the shopkeeper’s bell clattering in the other room. It was nearly seven o’clock – one hour after closing time -- and no one had visited the shop since noon when the clouds had burst open over Lancaster, unleashing a lashing rain. Letting out a gust of air that puffed my cheeks and meant to calm my nerves, I looked down at the tweezers in my hand. The millimetre-sized screw had gone flying, but not too far. I spotted it right away between two spooks of the centre wheel in the wristwatch to which it belonged. Good screw, I praised it and smiled. A man with husky voice called from the shop. “Hello? Is there anyone here?” His accent was impossible to place; perhaps a bit of Scottish. “Just a minute!” I discarded my latex gloves, and leaned back in the chair to peer out at my stray costumer. He was standing with his back towards me, looking at the alarm clocks in one of the glass displays, and I felt my lips stretch out in an incredulous smile. The man was the rainstorm personified. His posture was drooping as if his shoulders were weighted down by rain; his clothes were dark as the sky, and his black hair ruffled as though the wind had rushed through it. Only the dripping wet umbrella – which looked as if it had been dipped in crude oil – told me that he was to be regarded as separate from the rain. Well, hello there, dark strange. I tucked some loose strands of my brown hair behind my ear, and then, still with a smile on my lips, I walked out in the shop to greet him. The man heard me coming. He straightened his back, and turned away from the glass display. At the sight of his face, I stopped short and a feeling of ice to course through my vessels. The man had the most electric blue eyes I had ever seen; eyes that appeared almost fluorescent, and successfully misplaced under the dark hair that straggled in his forehead. He was pale and unkempt, had a Five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. And he wasn’t a stranger. But who was he? During a split second -- two oscillations of the balance wheel in my Omega -- I raked my memory for his name, but came up with nothing. “Hi,” he said, and behind the accent even the voice was his. I forced myself to act like a shopkeeper. “Hi. I— I’m sorry, we’re closed. . . I forgot to lock the door, but if there’s something quick I can help you with?” The man took a few steps towards me, and another shiver rushed from my heart to my crown and fingertips. “I drove past and saw the light on,” he said. “My watch has stopped, and I had hoped you could take a look at it.” “Sure.” I fled in behind the cash register to put a barrier between me and the man. Unable to explain why he gave me cold creeps, I placed a finger on the button for the hold-up alarm, ready to trigger it if needed. “I just— Have we met before?” “No, I can’t imagine we have,” the man said, stepping up to the other side of the counter. But his eyes had narrowed as if he considered the possibility. “It’s my first time in Lancaster.” He smiled a warm smile that gave life to his weary appearance. The gesture had the effect of a tranquiliser, and my high-sprung nerves slackened immediately. I found myself feeling safe. Safe and snug. Who are you? The man took out a timepiece from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it to me. It was a vintage pocket watch with a silvery case that was partly eroded where it had been scratched. “Classy,” I said, grabbed a form for contact information, and clicked a ballpoint pen open. “What’s your name, please?” “Er -- Tom,” he said. The name didn’t ring a bell. I told myself that I must be experiencing a lingering form of déjà vu. “And surname?” Tom rubbed his neck, and peered at the pocket watch on the counter. “How long time do you estimate it will take to mend it?” “Well, it depends on what’s wrong with it,” I said. “Could be anything from half an hour to a few days if I have to replace something. It’s a real chore to find parts for old watches like yours, but you’ve come to the right place -- my boss can make any part you’d need.” I smiled thinking of my manager, and good friend, Claus Truman. I had known him for fifteen years, and I owed him for more than the fact that I was a watchmaker. Half a year after I met Claus, he had surprised me by changing the name of his shop from Truman’s Clocks to Hannah’s and Claus’ Watchmaker’s Shop. I had smiled like a lotto winner when I saw my name written in huge golden letters. It was the first time I had smile since my fifth birthday when I caused a man’s death, and, in hindsight, I was told that my hazel brown eyes got their lustre back that day. Tom ran one hand through his ruffled hair, and his Adam’s apple bulged when he swallowed hard. “I may not stay in town for very long. Is there any possibility that you could have a look at it tomorrow? I’ll pay the double.” I listened to the salvo of raindrops striking the shop window, and looked yearningly at Tom’s umbrella. “Well, I can take a look at it right now, and tell you the verdict.” “That’s very kind of you. . .” He dragged the last word out. “Hannah.” “That’s very kind of you, Hannah, but I can come back tomorrow. I can’t ask that you to stay late because of me.”

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Medelo — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 18:40:19 -0500

My first chapter is a lot longer than 1000 words, but here it is. Take it to pieces! ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------ The cold sawed at her the instant she detangled herself from the huddle of warm bodies. Rane stood, flexing her stiff, bony limbs, and craned her head back to look at her friends, still blissfully asleep. The fire had long died sometime during the night, and the morning was blisteringly cold, much more so than all the recent ones. Winter was on them. She turned around again. Somewhere behind her, she knew Kavi was already awake too, but had crafitly pretended to roll over in a perfect display of unconscious slumber. Today was the rat boy's special day; there was no way he wasn't so excited that he could still sleep. She shuddered, blowing into her hands to try and warm them up. There was no breakfast to be had, of course, and there was her hair again, coming out of its braid. She folded the honey brown strands back up into a messy ponytail and lifted her light frame easily onto a busted crate that sat dormant nearby. It was a quick and easy shimmy up the cracked wall from there to get onto the roof. Out here in the slums of the great city of Callos, the roofs were never quite safe. One could never really be sure if something wouldn't suddenly cave in, the rotting wood and wire finally giving up all their functionality in their last moments. To Rane, who had been climbing the stacked, crowded buildings of the slums ever since she had remembered anything, this was a simple matter. She'd long ago committed the questionable spots entirely to memory, and she now leapt from beam to quivering beam, swiftly and briskly in the crisp morning air. Smoke was already starting to rise from several of the chimneys, and she was grateful for that. The ragged sailcloth she wore for a tunic offered her little protection against the oncoming winter, and she was glad to take what residual heat she could get. Her feet, too human to go shoeless in the streets, with its cracked glass and broken wood, were bound in part of a stolen sailcloth and rotten leather, and they padded along the rooftop now, silent. She passed the regular inhabitants of the slums — the drunk, the desperate, the dying. There were no spear-carriers here, no patrols from the lofty Palace five districts away. She used the roofs purely because it was faster, because people wouldn't stop and talk to her. And she had to be at the stand at a very specific time. As she passed chimneys and rooftop stores and rugs hung out to be dried, Rane could sense others up here. The morning mist was a little too thick to see too clearly, but she knew that they were out there. The other bands would be up as well, traversing the sparse, hopeful expanse of the slums, trying to steal, beg, extort, or somehow commandeer valuables like a bit of moldy bread or a long-yellowed head of lettuce. It had always been Rane's principle never to beg. The way she saw it, Unwanteds like herself didn't need to be denigrated even further. She'd kept her small band alive as much as she could on theft, and she planned to keep it that way. Get in, get out, stay out of sight. Let the world have everything else. She reached the sorry excuse for a bakery just in time. The filthy little square was already starting to fill up with people, scummy local merchants who had decided to try their grubby hands at buying and selling. No one from the merchant district would ever want to do business with the folk from the slums, so they'd just had to set up their own marketplaces here in the Sijit. Rane landed with a soft thud on the slick, smooth cobblestones. She wore no shoes but for a thin strip of old leather around her feet; having her toes open helped make it easier to grip the rough, sandy bricks for climbing. She edged around the side of the building she had just descended from. The baker was the easiest target out of all the merchants, not just because his stand was closest to the refuge of the shadows, but also because he was a blubbery, boorishly slow man who moved with a ponderous deliberation that seemed to be at least partially backed by his slow wit. The only catch was that she had to get here before his son did. Rane watched with mild distaste as the baker stuck a finger up his nostril and wiped it off on his greasy shirt, already stained from days past with yellowish, hardened patches. As soon as he was done, he bent to rearrange the money box under the table. Pull from the right, jingle, set on table. Like clockwork Rane had watched him do this simple routine every single day for the past two years, and it was her one golden chance. She slipped very slowly and quietly towards the small covered basket of leftovers from the day before, crouching the entire time. The baker's back was still turned. She was just about to slip a hand under the cloth to fumble for a bit of bread when something hard and unyielding struck her mercilessly across the back of her head. The basket spun out from her and spilled its precious contents into a puddle of dirty water. She felt herself go flying, uncontrolled, and the next thing she knew was the crack of her head against the stony ground. The pain seared into her, blacking her out for a second. Her head screamed. She blinked, but the sudden light flooding into her muddy vision only served to flash the pain through her skull again. "Thought you could do this again, didja? I've heard about you, you little whore. Come to steal from my father again, havya? Eh?" The voice sounded heavy and stupid, but absolutely full of anger.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Celticsmc12 — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 21:43:51 -0500

It was a little awkward in some places. (ex: there was no way he wasn't so excited that he could still sleep.) But otherwise good! I couldn't remember how long I had been sitting on the bathroom floor, in the tatters of a pink dress, bathed in metallic blood, coated with white ash. Let's not forget the ash. I didn't know what had happened. The dress must have once been pretty, I noted as I stared down the sparkly sequins that fell from my ruined bodice onto a scorched tile. The blood came from somewhere, I guessed, but the gash on my arm was too small, the blood too much. The ash,crumbling white ash coated everything from the darkened mirror to my lips. The lingering smell of chemical fire mixed nauseatingly with the blood, almost a dead giveaway to what had happened.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lycaenide — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 08:07:07 -0500

Chapter One The Enlightened, as they had dubbed themselves, were described by numerous people as the kind of men who wore many hats. This was correct, not in the literal sense of the phrase, as like most gentlemen nowadays they found that one would usually suffice, but in the figurative sense. The parchment scrolls on the walls of their chambers declared them Philosophers, and when they weren’t expressly needed they could be found lounging about the castle deep in thought. When they were called upon, they acted as advisors to the king. Their advice often beginning with the words With All Due Respect and ending with suggestions involving raising taxes or conquering other lands, but always revolving around the idea that the king was too soft. Unfortunately for them, but luckily for the kingdom, this kind of advice was only ever followed by the king with a throaty laugh or a good pat on the pack for being so amusing. Occasionally they were speech writers – or demoted to penmen when their ideas differed with those of the king; which was becoming increasingly more often. When they weren’t thinking, or advising, or writing, they dabbled in alchemy; doing their experiments in one of the unused rooms in the underground portions of the castle. Their latest experiment had created, quite by accident, what they initially believed to be the fabled Elixir of Life. All eight of them had crowded around the messy workstation and gazed in awe at the golden mixture. It had so strikingly resembled the illustrations in their dusty old tomes, that were currently strewn all around them at the appropriate pages, that one of their number instantly downed the vial. At first, the others were aghast at the fact he had not offered to share, but their dismay soon turned into relief, as he promptly collapsed on the floor. After shoving the body aside to get better access to their equipment, and upon further testing of the single drop that was left in the vial, they discovered the concoction had actually been some sort of molten metal. This was as miraculous in itself as creating the Elixir of Life, but sadly did not result in the same effect when consumed. Even though the result had been a disappointment, the experience prompted a unanimous thought. The kind of thought that each individual had dwelled upon, the idea rolling around his mind with the intensity of a wave, its power increasing with each swell. The kind of thought that consumed. The kind of thought that never reached the lips, until now. Eternal life. Eternal power. It was in that moment that the Enlightened donned yet another figurative hat, and become Plotters. It was also then that the grandest plot the kingdom would ever bear witness to was born.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 08:25:14 -0500

More than 1000 words. Sorry about that, but there wasn't really a good place to cut it. ********************************************************************************************* Eddie liked this diner. Rundown and dirty. Quiet, secluded, set back from the highway as though the world were ashamed of it, or it ashamed of the world. It made him feel clean by comparison. A few cars dotted the cracked pavement of the parking lot, but none he recognized, specifically not Frankie's hydro-powered Caddie. He parked his Chevy--it still ran on gas--in the spot closest to the highway and walked down the gradual decline toward the door. Dirt darkened the windows, brown smudges like the stained glass icons of St. Thomas' church. Those windows both heartened and frightened him. He could not see inside. He could not see if anyone was waiting for him. Someone with a gun. But once he was inside, no one could see him. He would be safe. He paused at the threshold. Calm, so calm. That was the way. The heavy door yielded reluctantly as he pushed his way inside. The place was empty except for a nob in a suit at the counter, drinking his coffee and rustling his newspaper, acting for all the world as if he were important. Don't nobody read newspapers any more. Why bother? All you needed these days was a flash pad. As soon as he got up a little money, he'd buy one. Teri eyed him from behind the counter. She wasn't old, but the years showed in her hips and her sagging breasts, in the placid expression of boredom she wore every day. Or at least, every time she saw him. What, I ain't good enough for ya? Eddie sat in his usual booth in the corner. Maybe that's why Teri didn't like him, for making her walk an extra twenty feet. She brought his coffee, black, burned from sitting all morning from the smell of it. "Whadda ya want?" He took a sip of coffee before answering, savoring the taste and making her wait. Her lips pursed and he savored that too. Score one for Eddie. "Eggs, scrambled. Extra bacon." It was the same thing every time. Almost every time. Once, she brought out his usual without asking first. He sent it back and ordered a cheeseburger. His stomach hadn't been right the rest of the day, but she never didn't ask again. Teri waddled back into the kitchen and minutes later, returned with his order. She set it down on the table. "Enjoy," she said, but he knew she didn't mean it. Eddie ate slowly, saving the bacon for last. When he was done, he pushed the plate back and signaled to Teri for a refill. It was then that he noticed that the nob was still sitting at the counter reading his paper. Eddie didn't like that. He didn't like it at all. He pulled the lighter from his pocket, an old Zippo, the only thing his father had left him. He flipped the top off and flicked the thumbwheel. Orange-yellow flame sprang to life, dancing in the stagnant air. "You can't smoke in here." Eddie bit back a snide remark as Teri set a fresh cup of coffee down on the table. He didn't want to draw the nob's attention. "I don't smoke." He flipped the lighter closed and slipped it back into his pocket. He studied the man over the rim of his cup as he drank, wondering what the game was. Had Frankie ratted him out? If so, what was the nob waiting for? Backup maybe? Big man needs help to take down Eddie Franklin? The minutes dragged by until the man finally made a move. He folded his paper neatly, then pulled out his wallet and placed money on the counter. Eddie watched as the man put his wallet away. Watched where he put it. The movement swept back his coat. No gun, but that didn't mean he wasn't carrying. The nob stood, tucked the paper under his arm and left. Eddie looked out the window to make sure the man left, but could see little through the dirt smudged glass. The door opened again and in walked Frankie. Right on time. Eddie let out the breath he'd been holding. "Decaf, please," Frankie called to the waitress as he limped down to Eddie's booth. "My pleasure," Teri replied. The bitch actually smiled at him as she sat down his cup. Frankie had been a quarterback in college, back when Eddie was still a little shit playing stickball in the neighborhood. Twenty years later, he had less hair and more flab, but he still looked the part. He rested his hands, large hands that could choke a man as easily as they could throw a football, on the table and leaned forward. "People been watching you, Eddie. Taking notice." Eddie's hand went for his pocket, for his lighter, but he stopped himself. "What people?" "The right people," Frankie replied. Eddie knew who the right people were. The Corp. The upper ups of organized crime. The mafiosos had gone the way of the dodo, squeezed out by techno-hoods sporting college degrees instead of guns. Smuggling and protection rackets had been replaced by identity theft and computer hacking. But even with all their tech, they still needed guys like Eddie. They still needed cleaners. "What's the job?" Frankie reached into the pocket of his coat and pulled out a business card. He slid it across the table, face down. Eddie slid it off the edge and read it: Trent Johnson Bank of America 78 6th Avenue New York, NY Eddie slipped the card into his pocket, next to the lighter. "What's the pay?" "Five." Frankie sipped his coffee. Five grand was shit, but Eddie understood that this was a test. He had to prove himself to earn the big paydays. "Two upfront. I got expenses." "One," Frankie replied, smiling. "And I'll pay for breakfast." He reached into his coat again and pulled out a small bundle wrapped in heavy white paper. The second it hit the table, Eddie snatched it up and tucked into his pants, looking around as he did so to make sure the bitch wasn't watching. Frankie leaned back as he drained his cup, then set it down and gave Eddie an appraising look. "You want a scrubber?" Eddie had expected the question. When things got messy, they called in a cleaner. When the cleaner was done, they called in a scrubber to take care of whatever remained: fingerprints, hair, video records, whatever. Anything that could be used to identify the cleaner, and possibly the men behind the cleaner, was scrubbed away. Eddie had only used a scrubber once, on his first job, a freelancer named Domingez. Since then Eddie had wondered, and worried, about what evidence Domingez had found, and if he ever might use it against him. Since then Eddie had taken care to do his own scrubbing, taken care to not need scrubbing. Getting caught by the cops would be bad. Getting blackmailed by a scrubber might be worse. But this was The Corp. These men didn't take chances. They might not like it if he refused. "They gonna pay for it?" "Not a penny extra," Frankie replied. "Though I can recommend a good one." A good one with ties to The Corp, no doubt. One that would turn over to them any evidence that he found. And then they would own Eddie Franklin. "I'll pass." Frankie shrugged. "Fine. You got two weeks." He dropped a twenty on the table and stood up slowly, favoring his leg. Frankie coulda gone pro if not for that leg, or so he says. Eddie watched him leave then pulled out the bundle of money, hiding his hands under the table as he counted it. One thousand. A smile spread across his face like the morning sun spreading across the horizon. He tucked the bundle away and reached into his pocket for the Zippo. His finger traced the initials inscribed on the side: G A B. He flipped the top, flicked the thumbwheel. The flame burned bright, like Eddie Franklin’s future.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 09:56:25 -0500

[This is the second part of my first chapter. Due to length I had to split it up to make it roughly the appropriate word count. I'm currently in the stage of editing it (using advice I got from the same editor in the first section) so if you notice nits, please point them out. Thank you in advance.] Chilled, Larken nodded to the guard that stood by the side of the door. Again he tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling it further to hide his shame even as the sra was split in half to allow him entrance. Once he had cleared the threshold, the doors slammed shut behind him, locking him in the semi-darkness. He blinked rapidly to allow his eyes to adjust, though he was hardly unfamiliar with the scenery. The pungent aroma of jasmine and other assorted herbs assaulted him instantly, smoke wafting about from jars of incense set inconspicuously in the corners of the room. Bookshelves lined the walls, leaving no spaces between them, thickly bound tomes crowded so closely one wondered how they could even be pulled out and examined. The only light came from a large fire place set at the center, the mantle hung with a detailed map of the land of O'ren. Larken allowed his eyes to rove over the elaborate inking, studying the unpredictable curves and divots that represented the different boundaries littering the continent's surface. It was divided into seven Regions: Plinar to the north, and beneath it in unordered succession, Ench, Ridna, Ichora, Smen, Unfmer, and finally Drend. Of these places, Plinar was the smallest, though its position near the mountain region gave it the benefit of natural resources, which kept it's people's pockets considerably well filled. By sheer force of will, Larken turned his attention away from the map and downwards. Before the generous hearth was a desk, the legs carved into intricate talon-accented feet and made from the flesh of ancient pine. In a high-backed chair behind the desk sat one man, the high Regent Grenon. His hair was gray and thin, falling out in certain places, though this had been somewhat hidden by constant combing and application of oils to his scalp in an attempt to salvage the receding hairline. Bags of flesh hung below clouded eyes, whose corners radiated deep lines. His fingers where twitching unpredictably, wrapped around a long feathered quill. The only noise was the faint scratching of the quill's tip against a piece of parchment he had set before him. Not once did he raise his eyes to acknowledge Larken's arrival. Slowly, Larken bowed himself down, bending his torso in the proper posture of humility. He clasped his hands together flatly, diverting his gaze. “Father,” he said softly, his voice booming out in the unnatural quiet. “I have come at your request. What is it that you need of me?” The only reply was a moment's pause in the steady pacing of the Regent's writing. He continued instantly, and spoke without looking towards Larken, who only unbent himself after he was certain that the required respect had been relayed. “I have decided upon an assignment for you, Larken,” Grenon said, only bothering to lift his eyes to his son after he finished his sentence. He laid his quill down atop the document, and even now, when his attention was supposedly fixed upon the boy, he did not look directly at his face. Locking his cold eyes on some random point over Larken's shoulder, he continued with his one-sided conversation. “You will go to the Dome and check upon its keeping. You will take note, and reassure me that it is following smoothly with all required expectations.” For a long moment, Larken did not respond. Shocked, he stood without making noise, without drawing breath. His eyes flitted back towards the map, gaze honing in upon the various depictions of spherical blue orbs, glowing from the center of dense forests or deserted isles. There was one for each region, seven in total, like tiny, sparse stars that littered the expanse of O'ren. Jagged lines on the map's surface represented the narrow paths that lead to the Domes, for they were not densely populated, and in fact were regarded by most civilized society as the remnant of a long resolved and long forgotten issue. A relic that no longer had any purpose in the current day. At the start of his father's announcement, Larken's heart had swelled with pride. Now it beat dejectedly, and shame made heat creep across his face. Quickly in its wake followed rising panic as he imagined the stark walls of the compound contained within that azure Dome, of the crushing prison that rose jagged from the ground. He had been there once, as a young boy, on business with his father. But the practice of visiting physically had been disregarded over a decade ago due to its irrelevance. Nowadays a simple messenger would be sent out to make the arduous journey, and bring back whatever news there might have been, though there rarely was anything of interest to report. Larken clenched his teeth. Folding his hands behind his back, he twined his fingers together and closed his eyes, drawing a deep breath. He knew precisely the reason for this fool's errand. Soon there was to be a gathering of the regions, a fine display of Plinar pride as it hosted an annual assembly of all who possessed enough power and wealth to be of any import. The opportunity circulated amongst the regions, and this year, this seventh year, it fell to Plinar. And now during that honor, Grenon sought to be rid of him. Because he was mottled. “Father,” he whispered, and his voice broke. Self-loathing choked him, made his throat close. He cleared hit, digging his nails painfully into the meat of his palms. His eyes snapped back open dry and steely, too accustomed to such humiliation to allow it to affect him now. At least not in a way that the Regent could see. “Father, I shall gather what is needed immediately, and be on my way, as commanded.” He turned towards the closed door, his hand already flat upon it, ready to push it open. But Grenon's voice stopped him, flat and without inclination as he added: “I am certain that in seven years' time I will have found an appropriate healer to take care of your...inconvenient physical malady,” he said. There was no hint of compassion in his voice; his tone was as cold as his eyes. “Until then, I am sure that you understand the necessity of keeping it between the two of us, and how unfortunate it would be if news of it got into public circulation.” The statement made, Grenon returned his attention to his writing, as though Larken were no longer of any major concern to him. With sorrow and anger battling one another in his chest, the young man quickly strode past the doors and past the guards that stood stiffly before them, heading towards his own quarters to make preparations for the impending visit.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

GGG100 — Fri, 13 Apr 2012 13:48:37 -0500

Just a snippet from the first chapter. I was lying down in the waiting room, awaiting my next order. The room was newly painted, as evidenced by the strong, pungent smell that assaulted my nostrils the moment I entered the room. The whole place was barren with the exception of two benches and a desk. Though I’ve been stationed here a few months ago, it’s only now that they’ve given any thought on furnishing this place. A knock on the door roused me from my nap. “Come in” I said drowsily. The door opened to reveal Lacy, one of my colleagues, who was stationed three months ahead of me. “I’ve been going through with the past materials we’ve acquired and I thought you ought to know something” she said while laying down stacks of papers on the desk. Her face looks somehow worried and terribly exhausted. I waited patiently while she’s rummaging through the files. “Oh here it is” “Care to tell me what you’ve found” I asked. “You remember that statement given by Jason before he was murdered?” “What about it?” “Recent investigations have been carried out to locate that person he mentioned” “Marc Snider?” “Maybe this would sum it up better” she said, handing me two pages from the files. The first thing that caught my attention was the Bright Red headline. It reads: Criminal Mastermind Escaped Custody Under the headline was his mug shot. About fifty years of age, blue teary eyes, round cheeks, and a huge bulky forehead. At that time he seemed to be sporting a navy blue coat and jet black boots. The red headline indicates that this was from Pollins, directly east of Lyams, the city where we’re currently in. All cities and towns in Vallinore have their own unique colors. Each one of them utilizes their respective colors on their very own products, ranging from food packages to postcards and even mundane things such as shoelaces. Henderburgh, my hometown uses cyan. Lyams uses crimson so even our agency has to abide by the rules. Failure to comply with that policy would produce disastrous results.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Ben Moore — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 06:59:16 -0500

(The first chapter is about 3000 words long, this a snippet of 900ish words) It was about seven in the evening, late August, the slumbering sun had left the streets, but not to cool, with the hot wind came the gunpowder smell of hot sand. I was wearing a pale blue shirt, over loose cotton pants, stuffed into soft leather boots with a silver crucifix hanging from my neck. Clean, shaved and on out on the town, a Roughneck, and I didn't care who knew it. A good enough cover. It needed to be. I was calling on a Killer. Basang's place wasn't much to look at from the outside. A state built concrete box, studded with air conditioners, rust and lime staining the concrete with pigeons fussing where they could. The door opened into a narrow hallway, the advertising on the wall was probably as illegal as the acts themselves. The air smelled of stale smoke and sin. There were twin elevators at the back of the hall, guarding them from behind a grill was a woman. A thin stream of smoke curled up from a cigarette held in her yellowed fingers. She didn't look up from her magazine to ask me, "Girls or boys?" "I'm here to see Basang." She looked up, eyes rounding. She was surprised. She wasn't used to being surprised. I could tell, even on that short acquaintance, her face had mileage, city mileage. "You sure you want to see him?" I grunted. "What's your name?" She asked. "David," I said. "David Guetta" "Sure it is." She turned her head and stabbed the intercom with a nicotine stained finger. "David Get Ya, he on the list, or you want me to get Pyotr to show him the door?." An unintelligible squawk replied, it sounded foreign, I really hoped Basang had got my message. Pyotr wasn't the brute I had expected. He was a tall, thin military man, fifty or close to it, it was hard to tell. Sun damage had turned his skin into a leopard print of irregular freckles and bleached his hair white. His cold blue eyes held a predatory edge and he moved like a man acquainted with violence. The girl behind the grill watched impassively for a moment drawing on her cigarette before turning back to her magazine. Cold blue eyes gave the hall a thousand yard stare, before he said tonelessly: "Basang will see you now, Mr Guetta." My heart returned to a more normal tempo and I nodded at him. "I didn't expect an escort." He looked at me, or perhaps through me with those cold blue eyes of his and repeated what he had said. We rode the elevator to the seventh floor, music all base notes over the sound of a woman's breathing played softly in the background. It didn't do anything for my nerves. Pyotr was made demonic in the dim red light. I had to hand it to Basang, this was first rate underworld theatre . The boyish –looking, individual in PVC, we just happened to pass, was a nice touch, with his leather apron, and toy trolley. The corridor took us to another more private elevator and down to Basang's bunker. The doors opened into a vestibule that was about as welcoming as a slaughterhouse. Both the floors and walls were bare metal and harsh in the light of bare blubs. Pyotr came in after me, outer doors closing behind him, he turned the wheel of the inner door, it slid to one side on rollers set into the floor and we went through. Basang had acquired the communist bunker with the hotel. Rumour had it that he had redistributed its former owner to the city dogs, piece by piece till he got the location of the hidden elevator. One of those dogs was having its ears scratched by a three fingered hand. His owner regarded me with slanted, dark brown almost black eyes set into a leather mask of a face. He was a Mongol, the real deal a descendant of the golden horde and this poison apple hadn't fallen far from the tree. Pyotr cam to attention in front of him and said: "This is David Guetta, Sir." Basang didn't look up or speak, or even nod. He just kept petting his dog. Pyotr pushed a designer chair, some German thing made out of a single sheet metal, against the backs of my legs and I sat down. I could feel his presence behind me on my neck hairs. Basang paused his canine ministrations and in a accent like bubbling tar said: "Kumis, Pyotr. Have you ever tasted Kumis, Mr Guetta ? I hear it is uncommon in the west." "Can't say I have." Pyotr moved behind me his feet ringing on the bere metal floor. Basang, gave me a thin smile. I hoped this meant we could do business, he struck me as the kind of man who rationed his expressions. He spoke again, his face once again still. "Then it is my pleasure to introduce you to it. It is made of the milk of mares, I am not one to run away from a troubled life by drinking kumis but it is good to break the ice, no?" A small glass was placed in his hand then mine. Pyotr taking up his station behind me once more. "A toast," Basang said raising his glass high, "To health"

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Contemptus — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 09:03:34 -0500

Prologue: Do you want to make a contract with me? The room was dimly lit, the air warm and stale. Dirty grey light spilled in through the window, the shade half-drawn and hanging crooked. Knives gleamed on the unmade bed, a length of deep red fabric half pooling on the floor like a river of blood. A figure cut through the dark, barely more than a shadow itself, soundless and quick. It slid around the puddles of moonlight like a cat, clinging to the fringes of gloom. The knives were taken up and tucked away in slim wrist-holsters. Long sleeves hid them nicely. If you can pay my fee, you’ll find I can do the impossible. A handgun on the bedside table, the shine worn away from use; its mate already slipped into a thigh-holster. The second was picked up and inspected quickly, the clip slipped out, checked and replaced. It found a home in a shoulder rig. The figure moved on. Top drawer of the dresser, a kit was unearthed and drawn out. The bold red cross on the front was barely visible in the dark. Agile fingers flipped through the contents –alcohol wipes, gauze, bandages, cold compresses and hot packs, structures and flask of bourbon—until they found a sterile syringe still in its packaging and a small bottle of clear fluid. The syringe was filled to the brim before the cap was replaced at it, too, was tucked away. Accidents are easy, Mr. Bloom, even more so if the target suffers from severe depression and has a history of drug abuse. Accidents are very easy indeed. To the desk tucked away in the corner. The wood was scarred, scored with burns and scratches and tooth marks. The top was bare save for a single key-card, laminated and shiny. It was pristine, nearly glowing in the dark. It fwippt across the wood grain and was swept into an inner pocket. Do we have a deal, Mr. Bloom? Back to the bed, the figure making a bee-line to the long black coat flung over the back of a chair. Swept onto broad shoulders, the fabric rustled a whisper or a plea. A floorboard creaked softly and the figure paused, listening, boots uncharacteristically leaden. It took a moment before the figure unfroze, smoothing down the collar and lapels of the coat. Old habits. Excellent. I’ll be in touch. The scarf was last; the finishing touch; a flash of colour in the dark. Wrapped twice and knotted tightly, the fabric still managed to snap around toned calves. It hid all save the eyes, glinting with promise. The figure moved off towards the door and was lost in the night, coat and scarf flapping. It moved with single-minded purpose; stride long and fast, utterly silent. Time to go to work.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

kikiann11 — Sun, 22 Apr 2012 19:51:41 -0500

Dismal gray smog surrounded a sprawling city of the same color, partially obscuring the clustered mess of short buildings that seemed stunted in their growth, like trees never allowed to grow. People bustled about their business, not listening or looking at each other; eye contact was considered rude. Each individual walked at a rushed pace in what looked like a race to get to each destination without looking at anything but the grimy gray cobblestones beneath their feet. Not a single one looked out onto the edges of the city, where narrow stone streets became grungy back alleys strewn with wood and fortress-like buildings edged the sea. They did not see those who shuffled, broken, making the things that kept the trading city rich. Why should they? She was not a tall girl, not a particularly pretty one. Her growth seemed stunted, and she was thin, like a bag of skin and bones. Her hair was dark brown and pulled into braids that wrapped around her head in loops, looking like it had never been cut or properly maintained. Her eyes were gray. She was alone on a dirty beach covered with grimy sand, shells, wood and other debris, freshly stranded as a result of the recent storm. Her shapeless brown dress offered little warmth against the blasting wind and biting cold of the seaside, and looked like it had been cut from a sack. Ending just above a hem so grimy with filth it would never wash out was a large pocket drooping with shells of all sizes and colors, crusted with sand and still slightly damp from the waves. The girl looked out towards the sea; it was the end of the afternoon, almost sunset, and the faintest touches of gold brushed the horizon. The constant slapping of the waved against the water was like a drumbeat, a regular rhythm that seemed to hardly vary or change. Each wave brought more shells from the depths, more shells for the girl and the others to look at, asses, pick up. The best ones were bought by the Master, and then sold for four times the price he bought them to merchants from up north, where pretty shells were prized. All the while, the people collecting the shells were cheated out of fair prices and lived a life of sadness and hunger. A guard spotted the girl looking out to sea and shuffled across the sand, his thick boots sliding unevenly on the uneven surface. He looked like he was unsure of himself as he walked, but he quickly regained his confidence when he reached the girl. “Get back to work, Tsira.” Tsira. Nameless. How the girl hated that word. It tasted bitter in the air, like burnt food, and stung even after the guard has shuffled away. Even in its gentlest use, it was a harsh admonishment to children, telling them that they were unclaimed, un-cared for, alone. Without a name, a real name, not some silly nickname to identify yourself among many, you might as well be the dirt under a normal person’s feet. Not being named meant someone never claimed you as their own. It means you really had no one. There were very few people in the girl’s life any longer; living in the Establishment limited one’s social engagements. Ever since the fever swept the population of the Establishment, the girl had only guards to talk to in the day, the Master when she returned to the headquarters. and the few shell-collectors who survived the sickness during the evenings and nights. It was a lonely blur of days, and the girl felt trapped, like a bug under a jar who realizes he will never escape and becomes apathetic until he dies of suffocation. Finally, when the slight edges of gold flooded the sky and the smog muted the colors of the sunset to a dull gold-red-brown color, the girl took hold of the edge of the giant pocket of her skirt and tried to shake the sand loose of her shells. She did not have as much as she usually had, which would make the Master unhappy; it was lucky that he had to pay her and the other shell-collectors a slightly larger amount for their efforts these days. The Establishment was not a far walk down the beach; the girl spent the day making lazy loops around the few miles of beach the Master had laid his claim on. She structured her route to make sure that she had to walk the least distance to the courtyard at the end of the day, and get on line sooner. A guard walked next to her, keeping a close watch. Runaway attempts were especially frequent in the last moments before the gates were locked for the night. The Establishment’s tall brick walls cast shadows on the girl and her escort as the neared the gate, a large metal doorway topped and trimmed by razor spikes and made with bars so close together not even the thinnest person could squeeze through them. The walls and gate both were easily six times as tall as the guard next to the girl, and once inside, it was hard to see anything else. They were the first pair back inside, so the girl and the guard merely edged through the narrow opening the gate allowed instead of closing it. The guard peeled off, presumably to do some other duty, but the girl walked with purpose down a wide dirt path littered with debris and cracked shells. She passed several hovels made out of wood or brick or even bits of metal, organized into smaller side paths. These makeshift neighborhoods each formed around a medium-sized square building made of the same brick as the walls. People streamed out of these buildings looking sad and carrying things- woven goods, pottery, baskets, water skins, all made in the tiny brick factories to be traded about the area and beyond. The Master’s Establishment produced sixteen types of items, each with its own building to produce them in, with the exception of shell-collecting, which did not have a building, and it was only an Establishment of middling size. The girl sometimes wondered what a larger Establishment was like, and came to the conclusion it could only be worse than the one she lived in.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

silverdream — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 19:34:19 -0500

Morning broke over him with all the ceremony of a knife to the gut. He opened his eyes and stared up at the sky; it looked stretched thin, coloured a cold and watery blue and marbled with clouds. Its edges were feathered by the snow-capped peaks of evergreens and the naked, reaching branches of deciduous trees. Somewhere in the distance there echoed the faint cacophony of a murder of crows. The early-morning light stung his eyes, even with the sun still hidden behind the trees. He squinted and frowned. His first thought: Where am I? His second: Who am I? Shakily, he propped himself up on his elbows and tried to remember his name. Nothing came to mind. The only word he could think of was rabbit; he couldn’t remember where he’d heard it and he had no idea what it meant, but there it was, hanging on his lips as limp and cold as a dead fish. He decided that it must be his name. Rabbit gave himself a once-over as he wobbled to his feet. His front was covered in a light dusting of snow which he quickly brushed away. His skin was translucent, the bluish webs of his veins visible all across his body. His crotch and feet were wrapped in crudely-cured hides; the rest of him was completely bare. His chest ached; each heartbeat felt bruised and sore. His belly stung too, and when he lowered his head to take a look at it he saw a series of jagged white scars criss-crossing over his flesh. Rabbit frowned again—they were clearly long-healed, so why did they still hurt so much? He wished he could remember how he had got them. The crows were growing louder. He ignored them. He shook his head and began to look around. He was standing up to his thighs in thick, snow-brushed undergrowth at the edge of a small clearing. Near the center of the clearing, a circle of stones held together a pile of frosted charcoal and charred wood—all around, the earth was turned up, frozen in shallow ruts and mounds. The damage led deeper into the trees, winding down a clear path until it eventually disappeared under the obstructing brush. Rabbit took excruciatingly slow, hesitant steps towards the circle of stones. Upon reaching it, he leaned stiffly forward and plucked a piece of charcoal from the pile, dusting away the snow that covered it and running it across his palm. A line of black ash crumbled over his skin in the charcoal’s wake. His mouth stretched into an unpracticed smile, his papery lips curling back like peeling bark to bare fang and purpling gum. He’d never seen anything as magnificent as this—wood that could leave a stain. At least, he didn’t think he’d seen it. A shadow of crows blotted out the light. Rabbit started and dropped the charcoal, his smile gone. He quailed as the birds’ cries quickly turned from echo to deafening roar, as they landed on the treetops and shrieked down at him. Their eyes were polished droplets of black, their sleek beaks sharp and clacking. Rabbit nearly tripped over the stones and charcoal as he ran away into the woods. He followed the path of ruined earth as it carved its way through the thickening forest, falling to his knees many times before finding his balance and finally managing to get a steady pace going. After several minutes, he stopped to catch his breath and noticed a strange scent wafting off the trail. Sweet, rich and delicious… it was fading, but what trace remained was enough to cause Rabbit’s mouth to water. His empty stomach rumbling, he took off again in pursuit of its source. This time when he ran, his muscles sang, alive and thrilling with the physical memory of many a similar run. He picked up speed and careened along the sweet-smelling path, his heart racing and his breathing surprisingly steady. He was very pleased to discover that he was in such good shape. The crows’ cries were almost completely faded as he slowed to a jog, then a walk, then, finally, a halt. His left shin smarted, and he crouched to examine it. Something had torn the flesh during one of his earlier stumbles, it appeared—a long but shallow gash was painted in blood from his ankle to a few inches below his knee. The skin was curling back from the wound, as if it had burst open like ripe fruit. Rabbit fingered the broken edges of his flesh delicately—his skin was so thin a stray thorn could’ve ripped it open. He was of far too delicate a design, he decided. There was no way he could survive in those woods or catch whatever had left that scent on the trail with a body that fragile. If only he could toughen himself up, somehow… And just like that it came to him. A memory, fleeting and broken but very, very real. He saw a cave carved out of a mountain face. He felt a hand on the small of his back, guiding him through the motions as he willed himself to take on a new face, a new shape… Rabbit smiled slyly. When he’d learned it, who’d taught it to him, he had no idea—but now he knew. He remembered how to change. With a deep breath, he closed his eyes and sank into a secret part of his mind, an action that already felt easy and familiar. His heart pounded and his guts churned and his skin began to crawl, began to writhe. He focused on his feet, his hands, his body and his face. He felt them all writhing as if snakes lived under his skin—he felt stretched in every direction, just as he felt compressed into himself. He was weightless and he weighed a tonne and he was writhing— —and then it stopped. Rabbit opened his eyes and looked himself over. His hind legs were bent like a wolf’s and his back was hunched and his arms had elongated so that his fingertips grazed the ground. The cured hides that had acted as his shoes had burst at the seams, leaving his thick-soled feet bare. The nails on both his toes and his fingers had become retractable claws sharp as his teeth. His nose had grown out and his ears had become large and perked. His skin was tougher and had been coloured an earthy, peppered brown. He still couldn’t remember his real name or where he’d come from—but now he knew what he was. He was a monster, a demon, a creature of darkness; and whatever had left that delicious scent in its wake would fill his belly by sundown. Rabbit let loose a fierce laugh and took off running.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 11:48:33 -0600

Actually there is another thread for this in a way. People Critique the except on your NaNo page most people I believe put their first chapters up there I know I did. http://www.nanowrimo.org/en/forums/critiques-feedback-novel-swaps/threads/20941?page=1

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

She BElieVIEd — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 21:30:15 -0600

*Note: This is not ALL of the first chapter* Memory Number One "Mommy!" The screech sets my throat on fire, but I don't care. My mother. My own mother. She's all I have left. They can't take her. I won't let her do this. No. No. "No." It's as if my mother is reading my thoughts. "We've talked about this, Evol." Her voice is perfectly calm, at ease, almost reassuring. "In fact, I think it's time. They'll be here any minute now." "Mommy!" The sobs rack me, punish me for letting her do this, for allowing it to happen. "What if you're not useful?" I'm screaming through my tears now. I know how hard it is to screech and sob by this point. And I'd hate to lose my voice before our goodbyes. "What if they...they..." I can't finish the sentence. I can't think it. I can't say it. No matter how much I believe it's what will happen. The deepest, darkest imaginings in the pitts of my black life will be here, arriving at the doorstep in just minutes. "Oh, don't worry. There'll be nothing to see. If they don't like my level of intelligence, they'll shun me away. They can't afford another death, Evol. The human race is perishing. There's not too many of us left. They need me." All meaningless sentences, which we force ourselves to believe. "Then why can't I be out of hiding? Don't they want to know what I have to offer?" "Not until you're eighteen. Right now you still have a chance of growing, learning, existing." My mother, with her young age, bright green eyes, and even her prematurely graying blonde hair, will be gone. Not here, there, anywhere on this earth. Not living. Gone. "No, Mommy! I won't let them take you! Please, please no! Hide with me! Don't risk it. Don't do it." But my pleading is in vain. If they come here, they come knowing the house is not abandoned. That's why we got the note. The note that changed everything. The note--like a warning of death. If you run, they'll make it worse. If you attempt to conceal yourself, they'll announce the amount of blood there was on you when you died to your family. But if...if you come willingly, they'll go easy on you. Make it quick. They'll keep it quiet. Your family can then pretend that you were smart enough, that they took you to go live another life a ways away. I shudder involuntarily, remembering when I was seven and my mother had explained this to me, with my father's face buried in his hands, as we huddled around the fireplace. How dead her expression got, how she started to cry, rocking me in her arms. I had been frozen with indeciscion. When your leaders did not know which way to turn, you didn't either. So pretending is what we turn to. Let's just say they got away, believe it... But we all know. And if you get in their way during their procedures, they'll kill you too. That's why I have to stay trapped. Hidden. Safe as it gets. But my mother? No. They can't do this to her. We've been out here, living like animals in the woods for so long. And now they've found us. All vulnerable and open from every angle in our small clearing. And they discovered Mommy. Old enough to take the test.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Norse man — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 20:27:37 -0600

Prologue Southern Italy Lazily rising dust clouds marked the column of men and animals, their dark silhouettes could be glimpsed beneath, moving in the arid and bleak hilly landscape. The sun loomed high, baking the landscape and the unfortunate left unprotected in peak summer heat. Brown grass clang desperately to life among scattered trees, seemingly losing the fight. The rough clad man noticed the strangers approach warily. It was time to go. He had near completed the tedious task of refilling his water skins. His breath had caught from his hurried efforts of hauling a corroded bronze bucket up and down an old well fashioned from red brick. A good well like that had been a lucky find. The armed groups who fought each other in these lands took turns poisoning or burying wells with stones, and rivers or streams in this dry landscape were scarce. Securing the vital water would heighten his chance of survival in the days to come, but loitering around to see if the strangers were friendly would not. Serving as a stark reminder of the chaotic and dangerous times were the ruins encircling the well. Sturdy walls of the same red brick that made up the well coupled with a few costly marble columns still showed off the size and grandeur of the abandoned estate, but the roofs were missing from the manor house and nearby stables. Blackened and melted stones and bricks revealed their fate. Only charred earth marked where timber buildings had once stood, likely the quarters of the estate’s slaves and servants. No human remains lay among the ruins though. Either no blood had been spilt here, or someone had laid the fallen to their eternal rest. A defensive brick wall had been put up around the compound. Its mortar had looked new to the man’s eye while passing the broken front gates. Although higher than a man, well bedecked in slit holes, and with reinforced guard towers thoughtfully placed along its perimeter it evidently had not been worth the effort for whoever had commissioned it. Maybe he should have spent the coin on more personal guards, or perhaps chosen his alliances more carefully, the man thought to himself. Not that he himself had fared any better, he darkly added. His own vast riches were gone, save for the relatively small portion he had been able to salvage. Yet, he was still alive, and that was more than enough. Scrubby plants sprouted from the ground floor, a year or two at least must have come and gone since anyone had claimed the estate. Distant family members eager to either inherit or to avenge should have arrived to do so by now. He guessed it was a sign as good as any that the current upheaval was all the more serious, with seemingly rich pickings like this being left to rats and wild birds for so long. The last water skin was tied onto his grey mule. Neither she nor her gelded brown companion showed any more interest in the clear water put before them. They were laden with supplies, and had to carry the man’s weight from time to time as well, but they endured it well. The animals were strong and young, and quite large for mules, almost the size of horses. He would have much prepared the latter however. Unfortunately, they had proved to be more worth than both gold and loyalty a few days ago. As he prepared to leave, he glanced away from the nearing dust cloud, and looked at his own reflection in the bronze container, a sign of vanity that he should have put to rest long since. He had like his surroundings seen much better days. A scruffy beard the color of dried mud covered his dust covered face. His hair seemed the nest of a particularly disordered bird, and his greyish eyes seemed as tired as he felt. Still, he pocketed a narcissistic satisfaction from admiring his own jawline and finely chiseled features. His face somehow spoke both of age and youth. In fact, many a man or woman would be hard pressed to ascertain his age. Earlier attempts at estimates varied from as low as a score and four, or over three dozen. He prided himself in that too, yet he wondered about it more, had in fact sought answers for a very long time without finding any. He was different, somehow. The years did not touch him as they did other men. Scattering the reflection as he scooped up water to clear away some of the grime of travel from his face, he led the mules towards the smaller back gate, the only other opening in the brick wall besides the one he had passed through earlier. The heavy wooden gates were intact and now opened wide. The raiders that had torched the buildings had evidently been courteous enough to come knocking at the front. He expected to be long gone before the column reached the estate, and from the looks of them they were unlikely to pursue him. If they did, he had the means to dissuade them from further attempts, unconsciously feeling the smooth yew bow slung across his back with his fingers. Suddenly, when he was no more than twenty paces away from the breach, a man appeared to bar his way. Then another. More men continued to spill through the gate, forming a half circle around him. Their eyes held him, javelins at the ready, dissuading him from taking another step. Two of them moved quickly towards the ruined buildings, eyes darting here and there scanning the area for anything or anyone of interest. Trapped, he had little choice but to stand his ground and study them, trying to calm his limbs and his wits.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Norse man — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 04:41:21 -0500

Trying to get the thread right this time....sorry. .......................................................................................................................................... Prologue Southern Italy Lazily rising dust clouds marked the column of men and animals, their dark silhouettes could be glimpsed beneath, moving in the arid and bleak hilly landscape. The sun loomed high, baking the landscape and the unfortunate left unprotected in peak summer heat. Brown grass clang desperately to life among scattered trees, seemingly losing the fight. The rough clad man noticed the strangers approach warily. It was time to go. He had near completed the tedious task of refilling his water skins. His breath had caught from his hurried efforts of hauling a corroded bronze bucket up and down an old well fashioned from red brick. A good well like that had been a lucky find. The armed groups who fought each other in these lands took turns poisoning or burying wells with stones, and rivers or streams in this dry landscape were scarce. Securing the vital water would heighten his chance of survival in the days to come, but loitering around to see if the strangers were friendly would not. Serving as a stark reminder of the chaotic and dangerous times were the ruins encircling the well. Sturdy walls of the same red brick that made up the well coupled with a few costly marble columns still showed off the size and grandeur of the abandoned estate, but the roofs were missing from the manor house and nearby stables. Blackened and melted stones and bricks revealed their fate. Only charred earth marked where timber buildings had once stood, likely the quarters of the estate’s slaves and servants. No human remains lay among the ruins though. Either no blood had been spilt here, or someone had laid the fallen to their eternal rest. A defensive brick wall had been put up around the compound. Its mortar had looked new to the man’s eye while passing the broken front gates. Although higher than a man, well bedecked in slit holes, and with reinforced guard towers thoughtfully placed along its perimeter it evidently had not been worth the effort for whoever had commissioned it. Maybe he should have spent the coin on more personal guards, or perhaps chosen his alliances more carefully, the man thought to himself. Not that he himself had fared any better, he darkly added. His own vast riches were gone, save for the relatively small portion he had been able to salvage. Yet, he was still alive, and that was more than enough. Scrubby plants sprouted from the ground floor, a year or two at least must have come and gone since anyone had claimed the estate. Distant family members eager to either inherit or to avenge should have arrived to do so by now. He guessed it was a sign as good as any that the current upheaval was all the more serious, with seemingly rich pickings like this being left to rats and wild birds for so long. The last water skin was tied onto his grey mule. Neither she nor her gelded brown companion showed any more interest in the clear water put before them. They were laden with supplies, and had to carry the man’s weight from time to time as well, but they endured it well. The animals were strong and young, and quite large for mules, almost the size of horses. He would have much prepared the latter however. Unfortunately, they had proved to be more worth than both gold and loyalty a few days ago. As he prepared to leave, he glanced away from the nearing dust cloud, and looked at his own reflection in the bronze container, a sign of vanity that he should have put to rest long since. He had like his surroundings seen much better days. A scruffy beard the color of dried mud covered his dust covered face. His hair seemed the nest of a particularly disordered bird, and his greyish eyes seemed as tired as he felt. Still, he pocketed a narcissistic satisfaction from admiring his own jawline and finely chiseled features. His face somehow spoke both of age and youth. In fact, many a man or woman would be hard pressed to ascertain his age. Earlier attempts at estimates varied from as low as a score and four, or over three dozen. He prided himself in that too, yet he wondered about it more, had in fact sought answers for a very long time without finding any. He was different, somehow. The years did not touch him as they did other men. Scattering the reflection as he scooped up water to clear away some of the grime of travel from his face, he led the mules towards the smaller back gate, the only other opening in the brick wall besides the one he had passed through earlier. The heavy wooden gates were intact and now opened wide. The raiders that had torched the buildings had evidently been courteous enough to come knocking at the front. He expected to be long gone before the column reached the estate, and from the looks of them they were unlikely to pursue him. If they did, he had the means to dissuade them from further attempts, unconsciously feeling the smooth yew bow slung across his back with his fingers. Suddenly, when he was no more than twenty paces away from the breach, a man appeared to bar his way. Then another. More men continued to spill through the gate, forming a half circle around him. Their eyes held him, javelins at the ready, dissuading him from taking another step. Two of them moved quickly towards the ruined buildings, eyes darting here and there scanning the area for anything or anyone of interest. Trapped, he had little choice but to stand his ground and study them, trying to calm his limbs and his wits.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

FlameRaven — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 12:09:01 -0600

Critique?: I have two problems with this, believability and prose. For the first, I have some massive suspension of disbelief issues happening with this. Your MC seems awfully calm for being 1) a thief in the middle of a heist 2) on a ship that's ON FIRE. I also can't understand your premise: why would a crew set their own ship on fire to try to dissuade the thieves? Wouldn't they just, you know, fight the thieves? It seems like that would be a much better idea than setting the ship on fire and killing themselves AND losing their cargo. I think a lot of this stems from problem #2, which is prose. Or, basically, "show don't tell." I think this is meant to be a tense scene, but it feels very leisurely. No one seems particularly worried about the fire while they loot through the rooms. I mean, you tell us that Kale is terrified, but I don't see that. Show us that he's scared but determined. Don't just tell us. You can do this by breaking up your sentences more and giving us more sensory information: EX: "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. " "He stumbled out the door, steps slowed by the loot stuffed into every pocket. His back hunched under the weight of still more treasure. Eyes tearing up from the thick smoke, he glanced about the deck, taking in the scene before him." EX: "Kale hummed in agreement and moved away from the bookcase, deciding them to be not worth his time. " "Kale gave a grunt of agreement and threw the books away. They weren't worth his time." Little changes like that will give a lot more life to your story. Genre/Age: I'm guessing adult, historical/adventure Shelve or buy? Probably shelve as it is now. As I said, despite an exciting setpiece (ship on fire!) I'm not very engaged in any of it. Score: C. I feel like this has potential, but if this is your opening scene you need to make it much more intense. Give me a reason to worry whether Kale makes it off the ship or finds what he's looking for. Think about just how scary and chaotic a ship on fire would be and put that into the scene. Don't just tell us what happens but convey it through all our senses. Are there people screaming in the background? Are there smells of smoke, burning pitch/tar, and scorched flesh? Are the decks slick with blood/excrement? (When people die, they don't just bleed.) Can he taste the smoke and ash in the air? Also, give us emotions. Kale says that this has been a terrible day, but the only problems mentioned are minor. A hole in a shirt? Really? Those kind of small annoyances are okay but only if they compound each other. Show us how frustrated and stressed Kale is. Give us a sense of the ticking clock. Polish this up, and it could be very exciting and engaging. Right now it's just meh.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Mallorca Writer — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 15:10:19 -0600

Hi Cupboardfulofwonders, Just wanted to say, I hope you do take FlameRaven's critique seriously. The problem I see with your piece, and with many other openings, is that new writers focus too much on the first sentence hook. They make the mistake of thinking that all you need to do is create a killer first sentence and that's it. Unfortunately, the first sentence hook has to be attached to the line of sentences behind it that will actually reel the reader in. Your first sentence is a great hook, but it is not attached to anything. You then start talking about a hole in a shirt. Again, I say, take note of what FlameRaven complains of in your writing. Continue on with the immediacy that the first sentence promises.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Thu, 26 Jan 2012 18:41:10 -0600

Critique: While I agree with the critiques pointing out that the beginning is a bit disjointed, I will say that by the time Kale got to the captain's quarters I was interested. I thought it picked up nicely from there. You've done a good job providing some exposition without being too bland, and without drawing me out of the story. I took Kale's equanimity not as a sign that he was uninvolved, but as an indicator of his character: based on what you have written, he seems to be fairly hardened and cynical, and probably too old and jaded to have much tangible fear of death. It's not clear to me at this point if I am meant to like him or not - not necessarily a bad thing, but it depends on what you're going for. Genre and age group: Science fiction, probably aimed at adults, but possibly YA. Shelve it or buy it: Too soon to tell for me, but I am curious. I'd definitely flip through more pages at the bookstore. Score: About 80, I'd say. I think there is a lot of good stuff here to work with, although it could use a little reorganization. It's a nice, visual piece.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Golightly — Sat, 11 Feb 2012 21:09:28 -0600

Actually, if you clean up your prose quite a bit, if you "show, don't tell," (as FlameRaven explained), and if this little scene has a much bigger, realistic premise behind it... I could see myself being very interested in it. But I also didn't understand why, exactly, the sailors set the ship on fire and were throwing themselves overboard.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 14:52:23 -0600

Yes, I did see that, but it's for an excerpt anywhere in your novel. I wanted to specifically target beginnings :-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

CupboardOfWonders — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 14:22:05 -0600

Thank you for your critique!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Princeshelby — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 15:13:41 -0600

CRITIQUE guidelines: 1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I really liked it. You didn't try too hard to be edgy, which is what usually happens with stories involving a disaster of some sort. I loved your writing style, too, but I wasn't really "hooked". That's just personal taste though, looking back on it I think the plot just isn't the kind I'd typically read. I'd like to know a little more info about the plot, but the amount of mystery also makes me want to read more. I'm just not quite sure what it's about other than some sort of explosion, which seems to be a smaller part of something much bigger. 2. Genre and age group: I'd need to know the rest of the plot... So far it seems like the age group is from 13 up through around mid thirties? As for genre, definitely mystery. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'd read the synopsis on the back and read about a paragraph or so from the middle before I decided to buy it, but based on the beginning it's very likely that I would. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A, around 94 or 95.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 15:45:33 -0600

Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Firstly, the opening email letter doesn’t work for me. I found it annoying to read and I didn’t immediately make a connection with the story. Your first line after that is good and I would suggest starting there instead, although, it could be re-worded for more impact. It was a bit awkward for me. I am a bit annoyed that we don’t get much of a feeling for the setting. This is all about Veri and her conversation with the doctor. I want action, and detail, more about what she sees around her and what she is feeling. I didn’t sympathise with Veri at all, or particularly like her. Your POV is in 3rd person so you have room to show us more than just Veri and the doctor. I found I got bogged down in the conversation and lost interest. I think dialogue should support the story, not form the story. You do a lot of telling as well. She looked down. She did this and that etc. I didn’t really get a sense for her feelings and emotions either. I know if I woke up in a strange bed I would be very confused, and in a hospital bed? I would be frightened, scared, worried etc. She seems to just coast through with not much emotion, considering she recognises her class mates and they are in bandages, I would think her reaction would be more intense. Even though they are not close friends, the possibility that some could be would scare me half to death. There are a few sentences beginning with and, and but. This is ok in some instances but starting a sentence with a conjunction is a pet peeve of mine, and I think in most cases there is a better way. Also, using the word ‘that’ – read the sentence out loud and if it works without it don’t use it. Have you thought maybe writing a prologue to go before this chapter to replace the email? Then you can describe the fire breaking out in more detail. Or just leave it out entirely. I almost always write my prologue (if I have one) last, as by then I know what has happened and where the story starts. Give us more meat and more action and I think I ill like it better. Genre and age group: YA science fiction Shelve it or buy it: I would probably shelve this based on not enough to interest me. I think if you get more emotion in there and pick up the pace I would then be at least reading to the next chapter. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 15:49:28 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Interesting way to start things with the letter. Thing is I feel it is more of a gimmick to tell the reader what happened instead of showing them. Be better if someone was reading and reacting to this letter. Also you didn't mention Saturday classes (most collages and universities have classes on Saturday too) and the letter can lead someone to think that the building will be fixed in time for classes Wednesday which I find hard to believe. If you keep the letter you need to correct that. Maybe just stating the Information and Technology Building is closed and teachers will be contacting them with rescheduled locations for classes and exams. Lastly on the letter if the fire happened early on Thursday then why did it take them a full day to send this letter? Also the letter says the fire happened early morning Thursday and in her memories she was in the building talking to the teacher in the afternoon. So you have a bit of an inconsistency there. I think you will be fine to ex the letter fully and start with the MC waking up. Let the reader discover about the fire as your MC does. I think it will be a stronger opening without the letter. 2. Genre and age group: sci-fi/mystery as I find it strange MC has no injuries leads me to think sci-fi since it doesn't feel like a fantasy to me. Mystery as she doesn't remember and has to go finding the answers. Age: YA-adult 3. Shelve it or buy it: go to library and borrow to read as no money to buy 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): middle A as other then the letter and the inconsistency between the letter and the rest it was well done

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ohthatmomagain — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 18:40:12 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I really liked the idea of this story, and the opening (not the email, but after that). I'm very interested in the story and would love to read it sometime. There were a few sentences that I could have done without ("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?") Other than that, I found it very interesting. 2. Genre and age group: I'm thinking 'maybe' YA. Could be adult. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'd definitely read more. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): I'm gonna say an A-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:02:13 -0600

CRITIQUE guidelines: 1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): For starters, the paragraph at the end about lost me. At most a paragraph should have eight sentences; only half of that if you have really long sentences. Next, I would like to know if the italicized bit is supposed to be a song or something else. When I got to the part where it mentioned her playing the cello, I found myself going back up to try and put music to the italics. Maybe I'm just weird. Something tells me that this protagonist is about 13 or 14, but I've never heard of someone taking cello lessons that early. Dance, yes; big instrument that requires focus and dedication? Nope. You might want to mention her age somewhere. 2. Genre and age group: General fiction, YA 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'd probably sit in Barnes and Nobel with a cup of cappuccino reading it to see if it was worth the money. There's nothing here that'd make me drop the book and run away screaming but also nothing that would make me desire to have said book in my possession immediately. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A- (90) It sounds like the makings of a very interesting book but the lack of definition and sensory details would lose me pretty quickly.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:23:53 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): < em > is italics < /em > The first paragraph is confusing. Maybe it was how it was spaced that made it hard to read for me. missing word " you can’t be telling what I can and" needs a "me" -> you can't be telling me what I can... Okay this does nothing to entice me to read on. Where is the conflict? Not much of a story if this just about how he tells his parents what he did. Maybe just not my cup of tea. Not sure what this story is about at all. You need to add some emotions into this. Seems your MC is a bit on the emotionless side though all this. You need to show more instead of telling. 2. Genre and age group: I guess YA general fiction 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:40:36 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Overall I think this may have potential, but the verse at the beginning threw me. I found it hard to read and because of that I could lose interest very quickly. Is it supposed to be at the beginning of the chapter, or like a quote on a separate page first? The first sentence starts out having good impact, but you lose me ending it in ‘afterwards’. Maybe the comparison is a bit awkward and I think it needs re-wording. I also found reading this a little hard as you haven’t formatted it for web. There are some grammar mistakes and a few poor word combinations too. For example: “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.” Try: “Her eyes were quite intimidating, but I wasn’t about to back down from a little lady sporting a squashed bouffant.” And this: “I could probably consider the scholarships Ms Young had helped me get gone, too.” The words ‘get gone’ don’t work together. Try: “I could probably kiss goodbye the scholarship Ms Young helped me get as well.” Or something to that effect. Also, Ms doesn't need the period (Ms.) 2. Genre and age group: I think it’s set in the sixties from your reference but I’ll say general fiction or maybe historical fiction. 3. Shelve it or buy it: At this stage, shelve it. If you re-work your sentence structure and get rid of the unnecessary words it will be much better. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C+

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

FlameRaven — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:12:24 -0600

The fire's not terribly important besides kicking off the plot, so I'll probably just drop the e-mail. One of the things I'm wrestling with as far as rewrites go is that, as I worked on it for NaNo, the first half sets up Veri's superpowers (the reason she has no injuries) and the second half deals with conflict at the superpower academy she goes to. I'm really wondering if maybe I shouldn't just get rid of that first half and start her off at the school. :/ It would be annoying to do so, but I think the pacing would probably be better served. The emotion thing is definitely one of the problem areas I have, although it's something I was planning to address more in a second draft. We'll see if this draft even gets finished or if I rewrite it altogether. Thanks for the critique. :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

FlameRaven — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:56:53 -0600

Hm, it seems no one likes the e-mail so I'll probably drop that. The fire was meant to break out around 1-2am Thursday night/Friday morning so that was just a mistake on my part, should have been 'Friday morning.' So the e-mail would have been sent about 5 hours later. Thanks for the input!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:06:32 -0600

@Chaos-Insanity My daughter could have picked up cello last year when she was in fifth grade ten years old when she started orchestra in her school. She opted for violin though but there were two kids in her class who picked up the cello last year one boy and one girl.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:36:14 -0600

CRITIQUE guidelines: 1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Is Dragon a title? If it is just a species, then that needs to be lowercased. I don't know if this is just the sentence registering funny in my head but did you mean to attach tufts to dirt as well? Because I read it as Tufts of grass and tufts of dirt, associating the word with both. This whole excerpt seems like something out of the middle of the book and really, that's where it should be. I don't get what they're talking about at all, and by the point where you (probably) explain, I would no longer be reading. What also confused me was the use of meters. I get the feeling that they are about ten or twelve. Jumping a few meters is a bit difficult unless you're rather athletic and/or you've been training for such a thing. 2. Genre and age group: General fiction, perhaps fantasy. YA 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): B- (82) It sounds promising but I would quickly lose interest if this was the way it was told throughout.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Twilight7fire — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 13:22:56 -0600

Came here via the 200-words topic. :) I like the changes you have made, although I still think the first sentence could be better. I'd put a semicolon at the end of the first paragraph, so "(...)back; this (...)", but that's a personal preference. The first four paragraphs are the best, in my opinion. After that, the narration lapses a bit. Stylistically, I would prefer if you started a new paragraph for each new line of dialogue. Again, I started off thinking this was a third person limited perspective, but in the 5th paragraph, you shift the focal point again to a sort of omniscient narrator. This happens again in the last paragraph. The sixth paragraph doesn't flow so well, possibly because your sentence structuring there is very similar. Try to vary a bit more. I was pleasantly surprised by the fact that they jump into the book - from the 200 words excerpt, I'd actually expected that they would somehow use the book to catch the dragon (a sort of reverse Inkheart, haha). It's a very intriguing story. There are some obvious snarls in your writing, but you said before you haven't been writing for very long, so that's understandable. I think you could be very good if you keep this up and keep practicing. If you need more of your text reviewed (and you can deal with my incredibly blunt comments), feel free to Nanomail me. I'm intrigued by your story.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:22:01 -0600

Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I am not against 2nd POV narrative, but for some reason I think of Kiefer Sutherland and his husky voice. I didn’t really find the reference to Twilight very amusing either and thought it didn’t fit with the rest of the story. Plus this would be lost on a lot of people; surprisingly not everyone has read Twilight. Also, the line about where no man has ever gone before just made me think of Star Trek. You lost me at the use of the word Schneefrei. I am not German so had no idea what this meant and I had to look it up. It just seems very out of place to me and like you want to use ‘big words’. Also, the last thing I want to have to do when reading the first page is look up the meaning of a word, maybe half way through the book, but not so early on. It just made me want to put it down. The fiancé, I just pictured a giant snake on high heels. Maybe you need to show us a bit more about her face or something to counterbalance that image. You seem to be trying very hard to talk in a formal manner and this just annoyed me, I felt like I was being talked down to. There are some basic grammatical errors. Using then instead of than. Cellphone’s is two words, not one. This: “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.” I think should read: “I really should start AT the beginning, rather THAN the present, for only the past truly knows the path of time and in this, the path is very important. I also wanted to replace the last path with past. The past is very important? Also, this sentence: “In those days, there was but we the humans living in Lon, a land discovered thanks to yet another of our scientific achievements.” “there was but we the humans”? Can you re-word that, it just sounds weird. The first paragraph is good but I was disappointed I didn’t get to hear more about Jailinus. I know this probably comes later, but you mentioned a name and nothing else. Also, the name Warnaout, I wanted to read Warnout or Warnabout. 2. Genre and age group: Adult Sci-fi due to the swearing 3. Shelve it or buy it: shelve it. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): B-. May have potential for me to read a bit more if the tone wasn’t so condescending.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:01:04 -0600

Unlike the other reviewer, I am not going to be as forgiving in the citique. 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. Cut it. Cut every word. Who cares. As soon as I read these paragraphs, I almost stopped reading. They are not important. I do not think it weird that the narrator is addressing the reader, I think it is cheap and a gimmick. There are better ways for a character to be introduced other than having them tell you their name. That, too, is cheap and a gimmick. 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. This is where the story begins. Not before, and if the true protagonist is not involved in your narrative until the time of his/her birth, then I could care less than about anything that happens before his involvement in the story. By we, I mean the human race. Irrelevant. Unless your narrator is an alien, there is no explanation needed. 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. The send person narrative needs to be eliminated as well. It is not good. I think that the whole thing is unnecessary and would most likely cut it. 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. This is an instance of you liking your prose. You already told us that the diety was a friendly sort and the reprecussions of that. You don't need to tell us the converse. The reader can think. "Where no man has ever gone before," is cliche. 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. "My door," can just be turned into "the door behind me." "Her grace and poise was disarming but deceptive." Read this again. There is a logical flaw in this sentence. It is also passive like a lot of your writing. 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. Again, irrelevant. We all know what a cell phone can do. If something surpasses it, the chances of it having more capablilties are greater rather than not. As for the rest, it is disjointed, and does not make much sense. I read in your reply that you write how you speak. This is not true. You write how you think you speak. We don't sit and analyze what we say unless we are spkeaing with intent. On a whole, we don't speak formally. We eat contractions like they were candy, and not using them, even in first person narrative, gives the whole thing a fake appearance. I too, like the other reviewer, am glad that you have an editor. You both have your work cut out for you. --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 16:46:58 -0600

Hi Chaos-Insanity, Yes, Dragon is a title hence the capitalisation. I see what you mean with the grass thing, thanks. In terms of the metres, it says they take two final steps before jumping into the book. By then the book would be right in front of them. This event happens about thirty years before the story starts. Thanks for your feedback.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Princeshelby — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:40:32 -0600

Thanks, I'll work on all that... How do you format it for web?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:03:51 -0600

Meters: Ah okay, makes sense now. Thanks for clarifying that. Dragon: Lol, now all I can think is that an angry Klansman is chasing them, which is obviously not the case. I'd love to read this when you're done. It really does sound quite interesting.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:16:11 -0600

Yes, I am Australian so we spell metre with an re, not er. No, not an angry clansman, but that made me laugh. I am about half way through the story so when I'm finished I plan to post in the fantasy critique thread.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:21:00 -0600

I quite often start a story in a certain place, then later on as things progress realise it was not the right point to start. If this is your first draft it is not terrible, and I would love to read your revised beginning when you're ready.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 17:50:45 -0600

1. I apologize for the formal tone; it is just the way I speak (and thus, the way I write). By the time this is ready to get shipped out, it won't be that way if my editor has anything to say about it. 2. Schneefrei was my pitiful attempt at making a holiday. When I am at loss for a name for something, first instinct is to jack words from other languages (second being making up words, then finding out later that they are actual words) 3. I should probably edit this to mention that Jailinus was the god that was encountered. The reason why he is specifically excluded is because by the end of the book, he is still alive thanks to his invulnerability/immortality. 4. I was both trying and not trying to reference Twilight. I had typed that sentence as foreshadowing to the ill-fated relationship that the narrator has with his fiancée but it came out sounding like a reference to Twilight. Thank you for your critique; I will work on making my writing sound more colloquial.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:23:00 -0600

I just meant putting a line break between the paragraphs so it's easier to read. They all seemed to mesh into each other :-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 18:17:52 -0600

There is no need to apologise and that's great that you already have an editor :-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 19:08:43 -0600

I'm sorry, that's a little confusing. She mentions that the child had taken ten years of lessons for the cello; somehow I cannot see a child learning the cello at three or four years of age.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 19:10:25 -0600

I'm American, so we spell it with an er. Funny how spellings change with location.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

FlameRaven — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:08:13 -0600

Yeah... this story already shifted on me a couple times during NaNo, so I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Still catches me off-guard sometimes, though. More slippery than eels, stories. Thanks for the kind words. If I ever wrestle this story into some kind of finished shape, I'll let you know.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 19:38:05 -0600

Uh, you do realize that string instruments come in different sizes, right? And people start learning strings at any age. My friend started learning violin when she was four. Most world-class musicians started on their instrument when they were young kids. I started viola when I was in fifth grade. Sorry if this seems hostile. I just get peeved when people offer up their opinions as facts.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:10:18 -0600

I was under the impression the MC was at a music collage hence the scholarships and the talk of playing for ten years. But might be nice to know what year of school the MC is in.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 19:52:02 -0600

They do? You learn something new everyday, I guess.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

aaalllyyysssaaaaa — Mon, 09 Jan 2012 17:06:23 -0600

Yeah, absolutely. I started violin when I was four, my cousin started cello when he was three. Basically all the musicians I know started when they were younger than five. You've never seen the youtube videos with the little five year old Paganinis?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:25:34 -0600

First off, thank you for not going easy on me. I realize that my highly formalized style of writing needs to be broken down so my stories sound different from my essays but it is a bit difficult when you're used to working solely on writing that is academic. Second, and this is completely off topic, how did you get the words bolded like that? I've been trying to figure out how to do that for a while but never could. I think I'm just going to cut the death line altogether. I was going for a Shakespearian feel, where you know how it ends but you read it because you want to know the how and why of it but it seems I failed horribly at doing so. I don't get what you mean when you say there is a logical flaw in the sentence. Mind cluing me in?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Princeshelby — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:21:17 -0600

She's meant to be a junior in high school, but I couldn't figure a way to fit that in somewhere without disrupting the flow. I'm probably going to be rewriting a large portion of it, though, so I'll be sure to do that. I probably also need to make her sound older, anyway. And thanks so much again for all the critiques, they're really helpful.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:09:43 -0600

All of this is just based on my reading preferences so take everything with a grain of salt. [quote=EmmaMayfield] 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. This is information that you could easily work into your story. And as a reader I don't like being told, "This is where character x's story begins." You should just jump into the story. Chapter One Your story starts here.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.This paragraph loses suspense because you already explained the list in your info dump. Another reason to cut it. “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. Awkward POV change. Having read the entire thing it seems better to just start with Brooke's point of view. 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. "Roughed her down," is a really awkward way to phrase that. Also, if they just passed the room why mention it? Just skip to the part where she enters the other room. “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.Needless drama... 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. [/quote] I think my main issue with this is that it starts in the wrong place. If you started right when Brooke was introduced this chapter would have been stronger. Don't be afraid to let your reader get confused. If you have really a really strong writing style they'll continue on reading anyway. Genre and Age group: Young Adult Sci-fi Buy it or Shelve it: Shelve it, because the info dump was boring. Grade: B-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:33:05 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Ok not going to be nice here but I will explain why.... [quote=EmmaMayfield] 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 [/quote] Strike the prologue your story starts with chapter 1. I am going to quote two sources for why you do not want a prologue. [quote] advice on prologues: Mostly: Don't do 'em. There are, of course, exceptions. One popular exception is a prologue in a book in an established series. A prologue is sometimes used in such a book simply to bring the fans of the series up to speed for the current read. Many times, it will include a short synopsis of where the protagonist was when the previous book ended — and perhaps a major shift he has undergone offstage since the previous story. There are other legitimate reasons to employ a prologue. But don't use one if you're just trying to sneak in backstory. If that's the sole reason for writing a prologue, it's probably best to forego the prologue altogether. Edgerton, Les (2007-04-12). Hooked: Write Fiction That Grabs Readers at Page One & Never Lets Them Go (p. 22). F+W Media, Inc.. Kindle Edition. [/quote] [quote]... In other words, by the time we are given the full explanation of the world, we already care about the people involved in saving it. Too many writers of event stories, especially epic fantasies, don't learn this lesson from Tolkien. Instead, they imagine that their poor reader won't be able to understand what's going on if they don't begin with a prologue showing the “world situation.” Alas, these prologues always fail. Because we aren't emotionally involved with any characters, because we don't yet care, the prologues are meaningless. They are also usually confusing, as a half-dozen names are thrown at us all at once. I have learned as a book reviewer that it's usually best to skip the prologue and begin with the story — as the author also should have done. Editors of Writer's Digest Books (2010-08-22). The Complete Handbook Of Novel Writing: Everything You Need to Know About Creating & Selling Your Work (p. 257). F+W Media, Inc.. Kindle Edition. STORY STRUCTURES FOR SCIENCE FICTION & FANTASY BY ORSON SCOTT CARD [/quote] Granted you only dropped two names not half a dozen. But really you explain the important parts of your world in the opening of chapter one with Raine's flashback about what Lizzie told her. So really you do not need the prologue. I think people can understand things fine with your opening of chapter one. If you want them to learn more about the world let them do it though Raine and Brooke. [quote=EmmaMayfield] 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. [/quote] this is really the only place in chapter one I had a big problem with. You already had Raine leave though a white door. You then mentioned Brooke struggling yet you do not mention anything else. You are mostly telling here not showing. Where are the emotions Brooke is feeling? What happen when she struggled to be free? Was she dragged away? subdued? Strike the next paragraph unless you are going to switch back to Raine's POV but since you are staying with Brooke then striking that paragraph and just mentioning what is going on with Brooke. Though the whole chapter remember you need to show us not tell us what is going on. Let us feel what Raine and Brooke are feeling. Everything seemed very disjointed. I could not get into this story at all. You want to hook me into your story, draw me in. Make me want to keep reading because I feel Brooke's fear. 2. Genre and age group: fantasy/sci-fi even though the MCs ages should make this be middle school or YA I feel this is more adult in nature 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it. Everything seemed cold and unfeeling and I could not feel myself getting pulled into the story at all. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C though I think there is potential to be a good story here.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 20:33:42 -0600

You bold like this < strong >Whatever you are bolding< /strong > Minus the spaces

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

chibisarel — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 05:00:41 -0600

[Her grace and poise was disarming but deceptive.] I think what J_S_C means is that something can't be disarming at the same time as it's obviously deceptive. It's the only thing I can see, at least. I know what you mean, that the narrator knows it to be deceptive through experience. At the risk of ending up with too many long sentences, I'd suggest a re-write to something like "Her grace and poise might seem disarming, but I knew [...]" to indicate that it's something that isn't readily apparent. (And yes, this is almost a week later, but...)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:23:29 -0600

Thank you for the critique. This is the first time I've written anything like this, and it helps alot to get feedback. I will certainly take your advice.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:01:05 -0600

[quote=Trixter] Oooo, I wanna play along, too. :) Dream of a Thousand Stars - Prologue Etheris Edgerton needed a smoke. Awesome opening sentence 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. I found this sentence really long and tiresome to read. Perhaps shorten it or remove all of the unnecessary detail. 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 Referencing technology immediately lets me know that this is set in the future. Nice, 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, to 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. So far Etheris(love the name) seems like a chill guy. As a reader, I find that I can relate to him easily. Make the Big Exciting Incident all the more interesting. 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, leaning 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 it Repeating the word Sky in the same sentence is really awkward. 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. Just like all of the other teenagers I know. 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. Etheris must have some kinky preferences if he thinks emancipated bodies are cute... 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. [/quote] In my opinion, this is a really good opening. The way you introduced Etheris was smart and his character leaped out. I think creating a character the reader will like is more important then getting down to the action-packed stuff. The only thing left to say is that your sentences are unnecesarily long and complicated. I had to reread several of them to get what you were saying. Genre and age group: Adult Sci-fi Buy it or Shelve it: Buy it. Grade: A-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:23:50 -0600

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. Punctuation error. "....half-forgotten memories, of a place..." "A place he didn't want to remember" is fine because of the impled "It was." like what you saw in upscale restaurants I would change you to one, but that is stylistic and prevents the reader switching to momentary second person. Other than those, this is most excelent, probably the best beginning I have read on these boards in some time. Grade: A Genre: Sci-Fi Would read further: Yes. --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Repenthea — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 10:21:47 -0600

[quote=Anahlynn] 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?” I would insert in a "said" line here, because until I read a few sentences in I wasn't sure if it was Liam who said this or if it was Gwen. 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 insert comma raising an eyebrow. The woman had not answered his question. Gwen stuttered to reply. "Have you tried the Peach Cobbler?" "Stuttered to reply" is odd. I would simply say "Gwen stuttered." The fact that she replied is obvious. "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?" You just changed POV here. I find omniscient 3rd person (which is what you're using here - jumping between the two viewpoints without a chapter breakup or anything to delineate them) to be very confusing. The boy blinked at the offer. "Eggs?" He tested out the new word. If he had memorized the menu (which you state that he's done) why wouldn't he be familiar with the word eggs? 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. Whoa omniscient 3rd person. Confusing. I would pick a character (probably Liam, since he seems to be your protagonist) and stick with his point of view throughout. Also, I'm having a lot of difficultly imagining a woman looking like an unattractive ladybug. What does that even look like? 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 co-workers' laughter. An order of what? He didn't order anything. 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... delete the dot dot dots 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 and 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 "He slowly 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. I find it a little redundant to say that their eyes met and then that Liam caught the man's stare. It sort of made me think that Liam looked away and then back, which I don't think is what you're intending. Also, this is an issue with using the POV you're using - I'm not sure who's eyes the man is meeting after he takes a seat. The last person you mention is Gwen, and before that Pete, so it could conceivably be either of them. 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 what is he returning? with a blank stare. For a moment, not a sound could be heard. They stared, waiting for the other to break first. break what? I get it that you mean the stare, but it sounds too slang-y, which would be fine if that was the tone you were using throughout, but it's not, so I would clarify. 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. "took aim at" but also, the orb of light presumably doesn't have the intention of taking aim. I would change this to "shot at" or "flew towards" or something. 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. "all that remained of the booth was a burnt stub" and then "the booth...now glowed an unholy red." I think you mean that the stub of the booth now glowed an unholy red. Liam scrambled to his feet as the man reloaded the gun. "You damn Yulics never die!" The man fired. [/quote] Critique: It's an interesting premise. The trope of "alien discovering humanity" is a well-trod one, but still has merit, in my opinion. Your writing, however, makes it fairly confusing to figure out what exactly is going on. I would steer FAR away from using 3rd person omniscient (narration style where you jump around to different characters' point-of-view). It's confusing and generally doesn't allow the reader to connect with any one character. As for plot: it lags. The action doesn't start until the very end, at which point we've read an awful lot about diner food and seen a kid act weird, neither of which engrosses the reader enough to continue. There seem to be some potential plotholes. Like how does Liam (an alien, I'm assuming) know Christmas songs? How has Gwen not managed to see this kid at all in the last five days he's been coming to the diner constantly? A little note: the chef surmises that Liam and the skinny guy must be from warring gangs, which seem to be a growing problem in his small town. As someone living in a small town I find it HIGHLY unlikely that enough people could divide themselves into gangs to merit a growing problem. This is my personal opinion, however, and others may not agree. Genre: YA sci-fi Buy it or shelve it: shelve it Grade: D

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:28:03 -0600

Your welcome! I actually really liked your chapter, minus the info dump. It seems like a really good idea and I hope to see more in the future. :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 21:37:54 -0600

Well, I just took out what was mentioned and fixed a few bits to make it work when needed so it would make sense. As soon as I finish more I'll be back to post more and critique others. As I said, I'm totally new to this genre, so I'm enjoying getting feedback.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Trixter — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 22:46:16 -0600

Thank you for the feedback! I've always had a tendency to get lost in the depths of my own overwrought sentence structure, and it's something I'm definitely working on improving as I edit the novel. I've always had a strength for characterization, too, and thank you for confirming that I've still got that going for me!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Repenthea — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 09:42:45 -0600

Critique: This is the only opening so far that's been readable for me. Excellent grasp of character, vivid location sketch (not too detailed), and a quick jump into story. Great. Etheris' name is weird, but not too so much so that I get confused and think I won't get used to it. My only turn-off (and this is entirely a personal one) is that I really don't like the word gaia. I simultaneously think of hippies and bad anime whenever I hear it. That being said, your story sounds interesting enough for me to get past it. Genre and age group: Adult sci-fi Buy it or Shelve it: Buy it. Grade: A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 23:08:52 -0600

Thank you for the critique! When I posted on here I was expecting something meaner since I just started writing it. It's good to know I'm on the write track. I never even thought about the "You" style until now and I'm a little ashamed to say I use it quite frequently. Just goes to show I have a lot to learn about the world of writing.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 23:11:14 -0600

[quote=J_S_C] 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. [/quote] The second sentence seems very long, is there any way to break this up? [quote=J_S_C] 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. [/quote] 'Remembering turning' is a little awkward for me. Can you try something like: Remembering when I turned sixteen is like trying to remember a dream. These were the only two things that really bothered me. Other than that I was interested and am intrigued as to what is wrong with this girl. Genre and age group: Adult drama/fiction Buy it or Shelve it: I definitely want to read more but I'm not sure if I would buy it yet. Grade: A-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 02:17:34 -0600

These are just some of my suggestions and my personal opinion. Please take it or leave it. A dark haired young lady, with her hair in a warrior's tail, (do we need to know this in the first sentence? 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. (This sentence makes no sence to me. I know what you are trying to say but you are doing a lot of telling and no showing. 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.The shopkeeper did not recognise either of the girls. They were dressed the same, but they were in casual clothes - not something that could be seen as a uniform. They were both dressed in similar white tunics and brown skirts, but they didn't appear to be in 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. The girls walked to the counter and smiled at him. I'm really sorry but this entire first paragraph is just not working for me and I have no desire to read anything beyond this point. You have given me no reason to becoome attached to these girls. I know I said to you in a previous post that description is good, but I don't want to know about the shop and bags of flour, I want to know about the MC. I don't feel anything when I read this. “Hello, sir. My name is Tracey and this is Jenny,” she introduced introduced what? There are words missing here. 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. This previous sentence does not sound like natural speech. It's awkward and disjointed. “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. Jenny turned to look towards the sound. Tracey remained focused on Mr. Thorison, tough, (this word is inncorrect. It should be though) so he returned to her and taking their order down. and he continued to take their order. At this point I'm sorry but I am just not interested enough to continue reading. You are telling me what is happeneing rather than showing me, and I have formed no emotional attachment to any of the characters. Sorry if I sound harsh, and I know my own writing is far from perfect, but these were my initial thoughts. Genre and age group: Fantasy/YA Buy it or Shelve it: Shelve it Grade: D+/C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 02:19:30 -0600

Sorry, the strike through didn't work on my previous reply. Trying to fix it now.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 02:29:17 -0600

These are just some of my suggestions and my personal opinion. Ok, I am no good with the HTML code things so try this. Just follow my REPLACE WITH lines to see my train of thought. A dark haired young lady, with her hair in a warrior's tail, do we need to know this in the first sentence? 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. This sentence makes no sence to me. I know what you are trying to say but you are doing a lot of telling and no showing. Smaller bags of different flours, salt and sugars, as well as yeast, were on the shelves that lined the inside walls. DELETE: 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. REPLACE WITH: The shopkeeper did not recognise either of the girls. DELETE: They were dressed the same, but they were in casual clothes - not something that could be seen as a uniform. REPLACE WITH: They were both dressed in similar white tunics and brown skirts, but they didn't appear to be in uniform. DELETE: 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. REPLACE WITH: The girls walked to the counter and smiled at him. I'm really sorry but this entire first paragraph is just not working for me and I have no desire to read anything beyond this point. You have given me no reason to become attached to these girls. I know I said to you in a previous post that description is good, but I don't want to know about the shop and bags of flour, I want to know about the MC. I don't feel anything when I read this. “Hello, sir. My name is Tracey and this is Jenny,” she introduced introduced what? There are words missing here. 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. The previous sentence does not sound like natural speech. It's awkward and disjointed. “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!" DELETE:Jenny turned around and looked out of the shop, her pony tail swinging as her head turned. REPLACE WITH:Jenny turned to look towards the sound. DELETE:Tracey remained focused on Mr. Thorison, tough, (this word is inncorrect. It should be though) so he returned to her and taking their order down. REPLACE WITH:Tracey remained focused on Mr. Thorison, and he continued to take their order. At this point I'm sorry but I am just not interested enough to continue reading. You are telling me what is happeneing rather than showing me, and I have formed no emotional attachment to any of the characters. Sorry if I sound harsh, and I know my own writing is far from perfect, but these were my initial thoughts. Genre and age group: Fantasy/YA Buy it or Shelve it: Shelve it Grade: D+/C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 08:43:10 -0600

No you are right. Thank you. I guess in my effort to add in more description I went back to telling instead of showing. I reworked it. Course now it is longer but please re-review. Still need to know if I should strike the scroll which is once more in italics or not? *********************************************************************************************************************** Jon Thorison looked up as two young ladies he had not seen before entered his dry goods shop. He wondered who they were. They were similar in dress both wearing long sleeve white tunics belted over brown skirts...no correct that those are a pair of skirt pants that the female off duty guards normally wear. Though they are too young to be guards or are they accepting them younger now, he wondered. No, if there were new town guards he would know of them. He watched as they walked about his shop looking at the small twenty-five pounds of four and rice and the ten pound bags of salt and sugar he had out on the shelves. His expert eyes took in every detail of these two young ladies. Both were of average height though the darker haired one was slightly taller then her strawberry blonde friend. Though they were young they did walk in a way a practiced warrior would. Their hands relaxed yet still hovering near their pouches to protect what is in them. When Tracey and Jenny had walked into the shop the first thing they noticed was the wooden floor they had stepped up on. Not many shops in the market had taken the intuitive in putting in floors just going with the packed dirt underneath that was common now-a-days. Tracey had looked up her silvery steal eyes taken in how the shop keeper watched them. She knew Jenny was seen as being pretty with her strawberry blonde curls she wore up in a pony tail but really neither of them had time to think of boys. She turned to shelves that lined the wall, Jenny already picking up and looking at a few of the bags of goods there. Tracey picked one of the bags of salt looking at the ten pound bag wondering if he had bigger bags of this stuff. "The flour and rice is only twenty-five pounds here" Jenny told her. Tracey nodded taking in the information with what she saw of the small ten pound bags of the salt and sugar. The bags were too small for how much they wanted. She will have to see if he can get the things in bigger bags. Her dark hair swung some as she turned towards Jon even though she had it tied back in a warrior tail he noticed. He watched as her blonde friend also joined her as they walked over to him at his counter and smiled to him. “Hello, sir. My name is Tracey and this is Jenny,” she introduced herself and her friend to him. "We were wondering if you carried your dry goods in fifty pound bags or will we need to special order the fifty pound bags?” “Morning Ladies," he greeted them kindly "I am Jon Thorison and I have the fifty pounders out in the back. So, what can I do for you pretty ladies?” he asked, pulling out a clipboard with a form on it that he used for large orders. He looked towards the doorway at the sound of loud ringing coming from the square. It sounded like the sound from a large brass bell. The call of: "Oyez, Oyez, Oyez!" confirmed what he thought. Jenny turned around at the sound walking to pear out of the doorway. Her pony tail swinging as her head turned. Tracey had only made a glance to towards the square at the sound. Seeing Jenny going to investigate she turned back to their task of placing their order with Mr Thorison. 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. She cringed at seeing how he was dress. She would never be caught wearing such loud, bright clothing. His jacket was an elaborate red and gold number that screamed money to her. His white breeches made her cringe even more as thoughts of how they had to be a bitch to clean went though her head. The only thing she saw as being even practical was his long black boots. Now those I might wear. 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 started to leave their stalls to watch him. A handful of them followed him to the center, and she wondered what brought a king's crier to their trade town today. It wasn’t that a king's crier was never seen outside the capital. It is just that usually it was only a yearly thing during the the time of the mother they usually came she thought. That was the time of 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 walked back over to Tracey and Mr Thorison. She tapped her on the shoulder getting her attention. 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, who was crossing tot he cent of the square. When she saw the red coat, instead of the blue, that the town criers 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. "Not a problem Miss Tracey. My nephew can drive it on over in a bit." He agreed She smiled kindly at him as she passed the agreed on amount for the order to him before she turned walking to the exit of the shop with her friend. Walking out of the shop they saw the crier climbed up on the widest part of the fountain, that seemed like a mini stage in the center of town. They watched and listened as the crier cleared his throat and projected his voice in the special way criers’ 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” They watched as the Crier took a calming breath at the end of his announcement. As he stepped off the fountain and took the few steps towards the announcement board. Tracey and Jenny made their way towards him and the board where he was posting the Ranger’s scroll he had mentioned. Tracey wondered if the scroll was like an unofficial test, as only those who could read would be able to get the information. Not many towns taught their youths to read nowadays, though the academy they went too did. But then as they were taught, if you want to one day work up into a leadership position in any arm force you need to know how to read and write. (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 pouches. 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.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 11:00:46 -0600

To answer the question that you have posited twice concerning the scroll, you can keep it. It does not hinder the story. The larger problem is the writing. it is too wordy. I am not opposed to prose. The prose that you present to us feels clunky and forced, and this is the main detractor to reading your sample. To illustrate what I am trying to say, let's look at the first couple of lines: Jon Thorison looked up as two young ladies he had not seen before entered his dry goods shop. He wondered who they were. They were similar in dress both wearing long sleeve white tunics belted over brown skirts...no correct that those are a pair of skirt pants that the female off duty guards normally wear. The first sentence can be clipped to "Jon Thorison looed up as two unfamilliar young ladies entered his shop." Is it necessary to know that it is a dry good shop? No, you show us it is a dry good shop by what they are browsing for in the same paragraph. You can cut out the "They were similar in dress," and just change the sentence to "They wore long sleeve white tunics belted over brown skirts." Then you add more redundant prose that I cannot tell if it is the narrator making a mistake, or Jon making a mistake in observation. I would personally cut out the "no correct that" segment, and make single accurate desciptor: "They wore long sleeve white tunics belted over brown skirt pants popular with off duty female guards." What I have tried to show you is the problem I have with the sample. I can't say it's bad; but I can't say it's good either. I will say that it has potential, but it is gonna take some work. Tighten the prose, polish it like one would the silver. Genre: Fantasy Grade: C Would I pick it up or put it down: Currently, put it down. --JSC .

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:43:29 -0600

hmm okay will work on it again. though the mistake is in Jon's head as he looks them over and it is there to show that they can be mistaken for skirts quite easily unless looked at closely when they walk. This is to searve two purposes one it shows how good Jon is at catching small details and it shows how most would think they were just wearing skirts.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:26:07 -0600

^{REVISED VERSION}^

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Wilson3sd — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:14:52 -0600

I am a fool, I posted the critique as its own post instead of as a reply. Please see below for your critique.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 16:29:01 -0600

[quote=EmmaMayfield] 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. [/quote] I said it before. these two paragraphs make no sense. You are missing a lot of what happens here. If Raine is already gone how can Brooke hear what the woman says? Combine them into one or clarify what is missing -> (Raine cast a terrified glance at Brooke as one of the ‘nurses’ grabbed her hand. “You,” the women said with a glance down at Raine. “Follow me.” She said with a smirk a folder in her other hand as she forced Raine down the corridor and though the white door at the end. Another woman grabs Brooke, she doesn't like this at all and starts to struggle to break free of the woman's iron grip.) Here you need to talk about what happens to Brooke as she struggles! What happens to her? does the nurse call the guards? is she subdued? drugged? bound? beaten? What happens to her here? You need to add some action and emotion in here to make the reader feel something for Brooke. I stopped reading at this point and just skimmed over the rest. [quote=EmmaMayfield] “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. [/quote] Syringe? what syringe? when did a syringe come into this? You seem to skip over much of what is happening. This whole thing seems to have no emotions like you are telling it dispassionately, like you do not care at all about any of what is going on so why should a reader care? [quote=EmmaMayfield] "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. [/quote] this is good can be better. It has emotion and action. need to reword the second paragraph or sentence here sounds off try. -> (Brooke wondered as fear and dread filled her, the screams echoing over and over in her mind.) might want to add in the third line how the sudden light blinded her. Just some thoughts. 2. Genre and age group: fantasy/sci-fi even though the MCs ages should make this be middle school thinking more YA 3. Shelve it or buy it: for now Shelve it. Everything still has an overall feeling of being cold and unfeeling and I could not feel myself getting pulled into the story much. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C+/B- getting better you did have some parts that had some feeling. You need to bring more action into some of it and more overall feelings. You can do better I feel

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 17:38:06 -0600

I quite enjoyed reading this and would love to read more. As you have received two other critiques I won't go into too much detail, but I'd like to address some basic punctuation issues. Dialogue punctuation: When someone is speaking, the he said or she said is still part of the sentence, so you need to use a comma instead of a period. You have this: "My work here is done." He said, glancing at the woman in the corner. and "Good." She said, smirking at him with a nod. "Grandmother would have been pleased." It should be: "My work here is done," he said, glancing at the woman in the corner. and "Good," she said, smirking at him with a nod. "Grandmother would have been pleased." The he/she said and he/she asked etc should always be lower case, even after question marks, exclamation marks etc. In sentences where the conversation continues after the dialogue tag, you should use commas and lower case. For example: You have this: “You,” One of the women said with a glance over Raine. “Follow me.” She said with a smirk... It should be: “You,” one of the women said with a glance over Raine, “follow me,” she said with a smirk... (I actually think this paragraph needs work) Try this: “You,” one of the women said, glancing at Raine, “follow me.” She smirked as she took a folder from the filing cabinet. Forcing Raine along the winding corridor, Brooke was left alone as another woman approached. Overall I enjoyed the story, and with some more tidying up I think it has lots of potential. Genre: Fantasy or Sci-fi and YA Grade: C+/B- because of the basic punctuation and grammar errors.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 12:50:13 -0600

Again, I stand by my critique by saying that in him noticing that they they were, indeed, skirt pants because you just said that they can easily be mistaken for skirts. My suggestion both eliminates unneeded prose and shows us that he is observant. Two birds, one stone.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 14:45:29 -0600

Oh I did not mean I was not taking your advice. I did reword it all. Even the parts on the skirt pants. Just in a different way. Still working on it and will post it when done for a re-critique

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Harlow — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:58:36 -0600

It seems as though your prologue and first chapter start off quite slow. Despite the young woman being passed out and Asher being horrified about it, there isn't much else to pull me in. It basically boils down to a rather slow-paced beginning, with a very rural town. While that is a promising beginning if your story is a thriller, I do hope that it picks up quickly. The writing itself is fine. It's descriptive without being pretentious, which I appreciate. The plot just needs something to get my attention, though. GRADE: B- (80/100) Buy or Shelve: Actually, turn the page to see if this improved. Genre: Thriller of some sort.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 19:15:10 -0600

Prologue: I don't have much to say on this. Really, it is quite excellent, and nothing particular jumps out at me for changing. Chapter One: First off, the scene switches (that's what they are, right?) bother me. I don't like it in movies and it's a complete deal breaker for me in books. Second, you only need to mention the state once. It does not matter what state they are in unless it becomes important later. Third, you ought make some mention of what the time is. I was picturing an early morning drive until you made mention of the lights in darkness. Also the comma between eReaders and lit is superfluous. Last but not least, you started a sentence with and. This bothers me, as it is grammatically incorrect.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 18:05:04 -0600

Hi Harlow, ohthatmomagain (the poster above you) is yet to receive some feedback, would you mind taking a look just so she doesn't get missed, and everyone gets a turn. Thanks :-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 23:00:45 -0600

Dump the first paragraph. Paragraph two begins the story. At first read, I something about it didn't sit well with me. So, I read it again, and I couldn't put my finger on what. Then, I read it backwards, paragraph by paragraph, and it hit me. It is the small errors in the exposition that one can read over and dismiss that made me hesitant to give this a thumbs up. Here are some examples of what I mean: 1) Mind the word "was." There are several places where that weak verb can be replaced with something stronger. Behind its wheel was Everett Belvidere, who was one of those highly-paid hitmen. It's used twice. Once I could let slide, but not twice in the same sentence. 2) Our hitman speak very formally, and when he does use the two contractions. There are two choices here. You can take the two out and make him totally unbelievable, or you can re-look at his dialogue and add them back in. I've said it before, contractions are part of our subconscious. 3) The exposition needs to be tightened. While it is good, and crafted well (note I did not say excellently), there is room for improvement. See the paragraph with the descriptions of the tables, or the description of the woman in the photograph. I'm not saying take the tables out, or the photograph, but you have the ability to condense that into something more succinct. (Personally, I think your third paragraph is the best one, but that too could use a couple of tweaks.) As to the flow, this being a crime/thriller/noir, then the pacing is good, actually. It has the predictability (I knew what was going to happen as soon as I saw the picture) that people who read thrillers want, with (I hope) enough twists and suspense to keep them involved. Grade: B+ Genre: Crime/Thriller/neo-noir Turn the page: Most likely --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 19:16:56 -0600

Almost forgot. Grade: C+ Buy or shelve: Shelve. Genre: Spiritual/Thriller

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 19:27:55 -0600

I haven't read the excerpt ohthatmomagain posted above, but I thought I should say this: While beginning sentences with conjunctions is technically grammatically incorrect, it is not wrong. I am also not a fan or starting sentences with and or but, but they quite often work, and they definitely have their place. As long as it is not done too frequently, it is perfectly ok. Have a look at these links: http://www.getitwriteonline.com/archive/032601StartSentAndBut.htm http://michelle-strozykowski.suite101.com/grammar-starting-a-sentence-with-or-and-or-but-a74404

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

ohthatmomagain — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 20:12:44 -0600

It is a good point. I tend to write like I speak, and I tend to speak like that.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Tue, 20 Dec 2011 20:17:06 -0600

-sigh- Very well then.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:40:41 -0600

Really, that was amazing. I have no words. Bravo. Grade: A+ (100) Buy it or shelve it: Buy it, most definitely. Genre: Realistic fiction, adult.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:53:50 -0600

I am amazed by my own comment. Usually I find some kind of fault with everything, but this just struck me speechless. There really isn't anything for me to pick at. And that's just terrible :c

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

eewashington — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 08:03:26 -0600

The main thing this is suffering from is too much telling and not enough showing. For instance, when Daimeon picks up the phone to talk to the trembling little man, his annoyance should be apparent without saying so. The motives for characters to speak and act the way they do should always be apparent to the reader without having to explain it. In places, you really do achieve that toward the end of the excerpt, but in places it's still a bit iffy. Information is good for the reader, but beware of an overload of it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

eewashington — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 09:07:05 -0600

Genre- I got a little bit of a young adult fantasy vibe, but it was hard to determine completely based just on the excerpt. Buy it or Shelve it- Buy it, after you edit and revise the prose Grade- A high C+, so about 83%.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

MoonPhaseChick — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 08:12:20 -0600

Same, too much telling tends to really halt the imagination process. Since I know how he is dressed, I don't have to imagine the details. Showing may be a bit difficult but think of the rewards. 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. <

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:03:19 -0600

Wilson3sd. This is double the maximum word count. Please read the rules before posting your excerpt. Thanks.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Mallorca Writer — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 14:16:33 -0600

I wrote a nice long critique of this piece earlier, but I now see that it has disappeared. Rats. Here is what I remember from my earlier critique. Critique: I know you have probably heard this a million times, but here it is again---"Show. Don't tell." Showing draws the reader into the story. Telling creates distance. You have way too much telling here. Your paragraphs are too long and uniform. They are aesthetically unpleasing on the page. Take a look at how successful novelists break up their texts on the page, and follow their examples whenever possible. This piece doesn't fulfill the requirements of a first chapter. It's almost all taken up with a girl walking home in the snow. Lengthy descriptions and heavy backstory do not make compelling fiction in the twenty-first century. Modern novels have very little backstory in the first chapter, perhaps nothing more than a couple of sentences. This is because the reader doesn't care about the character yet. The reader won't start to care about her until after she is confronted with the novel's problem and begins to overcome that problem. After that, you will be able to put some backstory in, but try to avoid big info. dumps. Sprinkle it into the text in tiny doses. Never tell the reader what the POV character is wearing unless it comes up naturally in the story. For example, she is discussing with her best friend whether to wear the blue dress or the red dress. Get another character into the scene as quickly as possible. Try to avoid scenes with just one character. Drama and tension come when people are together. The way to reveal character is through interactions. Don't tell us what your character is like. Show us. We need action, dialogue, problems. My suggestion to you is a big one. Eliminate everything you wrote prior to--"Emma sang. Muted, slower, more off key, but still she sang." That is a hook. It gets the reader asking questions. First chapters should be full of unanswered questions. Your first chapter is full of answers. Genre YA. Maybe horror? Shelve Grade C

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Wilson3sd — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:28:19 -0600

I have read/did read the rules beforehand, but thanks for the reminder. I just posted the first chapter, didn't think it was more than 1,000 words. (Should have looked beforehand.) So I'm sorry for that. In the future, others should receive the scolding as well. I am not the first to go over, nor will I (likely) be the last. I appreciate you pointing it out to me and I will do my best to follow them in the future. :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:39:23 -0600

I apologize if it seems I was targeting you. I just happened to notice the big ol' TL;DR situated under my own post and decided to word count it. Usually, we don't word count the posts unless it is abnormally long since it may be that the word count was gone over or they just formatted it weirdly. Once again, my apologies.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Wilson3sd — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 10:47:12 -0600

No worries! I should have run it through a counter. E-live and learn. :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 11:31:14 -0600

There is nothing here. It's like reading techno music. With the techno music I know the song is done with the track changes. Here i know I'm done when the sample is finished. You start to go somewhere in your penultimate paragraph, but by then it is too little, too late. Give me some movement other than being on a street that you aren't supposed to be on. Genre: Sci-Fi Grade: B- Pick up or shelve: Shelve

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 18:48:36 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Your writing style is VERY descriptive. It's quite unique and almost poetic, with lots of unusual imagery. However, I think it could be overwhelming if it goes on like this for the entire book. It can sound quite obscure in places and could be cut down a bit. If it's jut used to introduce the story, I think it works well to bring the reader in. The characters clearly have two very different personalities so you've established that well to begin with. I'm intrigued about the world they live in from the beginning. :) 2. Genre and age group: Urban fantasy/sci-fi, YA 3. Shelve it or buy it: Buy 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): B

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 20:22:43 -0600

Wow JSC I loved this opening. I so would love to read this one. Though I would need a Spanish to English dictionary for those small Spanish lines you had in there. But I still thought it was well done even though I didn't know what the mother was saying. I only saw one mistake. in the 11th paragraph when the boy died. [quote=J_S_C] Goodman looked at the broken body. The gasping breaths started spacing out. Sean took the boy’s hand in his. He would have cried if the tears hadn’t dried up so long ago. This type of thing happened before, and he never go used to it. [/quote] you are missing the t in "got"

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Mallorca Writer — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 13:00:52 -0600

Are you sure about the Spanish? I've never heard anyone say anything like that. "No hay otra manera?" sounds much more natural to me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 15:44:08 -0600

Thank you! I have sent you a nanomail :-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 20:36:49 -0600

Actually you don't need a translator. I translated it for you right after the line. I'm not sure if I should italicize them or not. So, for instance, “No, debe haber otra forma,” she said. No, there must be another way. Viola, translated for you. Thank you for the critique. --JSC

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 06:42:05 -0600

oh ok. That is cool, then ya I would italics them or put them in ()'s so people know they are not part of the sentence but the translation.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 01:29:05 -0600

ELOagent. The limit is 1000 words. This is 1510. Please read the rules before you post. Thanks.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 03:25:59 -0600

Hi ELOagent, Everything below is just my personal opinion. Take it or leave it, but I hope it helps in some way. I got to your third paragraph and stopped. The reasons for this are: 1) Cut the first paragraph. It is an info dump and the story starts with "Dana slammed her laptop..." 2) Your third paragraph is not formatted correctly, so I quickly got confused as to who was talking. It all became too hard and I just wanted to stop reading. You need to start a new paragraph for each person. 3) There are some basic punctuation mistakes that just annoy me, and your sentence structure could be much better. Go back and take another look, then repost the first 1000 words formatted correctly and I'd be happy to try and read this again. Genre: maybe a thriller Buy or shelve: definitely shelve Grade: C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 09:11:10 -0600

Firstly, I'm sorry if this sounds harsh, I don't mean it to be, I'm just trying to help. 1. Critique: The thing that got me was Dana's speech, most of it didn't seem right to me, think about how you'd react in that situation and what you'd say, some of it just springs from nowhere '"I'll never betray you"? why did she say that. Besides that though, your descriptions are quite good, especially that of the explosion, very good. The fist time you use slammed, I think that a gentler word would be better there because it's not an angry movement. She closes her laptop in the 3rd paragraph, but in the 4th she's typing. hmm... By the way I think the first paragraph shouldn't be cut out. Could you possible say more about the fact that things are about to change though? 2. Genre: Seems like a sort of thriller/mystery thing. Or a very tragic romance. Age group: Certainly for adults and maybe older teenagers 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'd buy it because I would like to know why Carter was killed, but there is still much to be done yet. 4. Score: 50/100 because it is a good idea but, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, it could be written a bit better, I know you can do it. Hope that helps, good luck with the editing!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 16:11:38 -0600

Mind if I ask which word counter you used? Abiword put it at exactly 1000 words but it may be under-counting.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 16:16:20 -0600

From what I was able to read before the word-wall headache set in, this sounds like a good story. Could you please format it for web? I'd like to give you a proper critique but I can't read this.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Anahlynn — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 21:06:25 -0600

Sorry if this comes off as overly harsh, but they're only my opinions. [quote=jordan.williams42] This story takes place in a world, not much different from our own. The grass is still green. The sea is still blue. The sky is also still blue; when it is not covered by dreary grey cloud that is. And yet, it is different - in fact, from first sight, there is nothing to indicate just how different this world actually is. This world is technologically behind us by at least a thousand years. The people are living in an era, that we called the dark ages, but they don’t know that. Why is this the case, you may ask? I couldn’t really give you an answer, only that there are many different worlds in this universe, some more advanced than ours, some not so, some where the grass is red, some where there’s magic … Oh yes, there’s magic alright; and it exists in the world of our story, along with many forms of mythical creatures, some you’ve never even heard of … Okay, I see you went for a mysterious, all-knowing type narrator, but honestly this paragraph does not entice me to read on. The narrator keeps harping on the fact that this world is different and all I want to do is reach across the computer screen and slap him across the face. The world is different, we get it. Now get to the stuff we actually care about. I could easily spend the whole chapter describing the many creatures that live in this world.Please don't... Instead, I think it would be better if I just began the story. ~~Yes, I think we’ll just jump straight in.~~ Stop repeating yourself. We’ll start with the long journey of an old man. He’s older than he looks. By his age people normally have a crooked back and a limp, but he stood proud and tall and strode around with his big black boots stomping on the ground. This is how we first find him, walking in this manner, a determined look in his enthusiastic, grey eyes. [/quote] Okay, once I got pass the rough introduction, this turned out to actually be an interesting story. You have great descriptions, but sometimes you ruin scenes by explaining. The audience doesn't have to know everything right off the bad. More often than not, they can figure out their way around a new world without the author having to explain every single detail. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it. Grade: C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 16:21:00 -0600

Never mind, just ran it through a different word counter. My word processor was under cutting my word count; I wonder why? Now I feel like an idiot :c

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:37:10 -0600

Sorry for not formatting it properly, I forgot. Hope it's better this time. Here it is again: This story takes place in a world, not much different from our own. The grass is still green. The sea is still blue. The sky is also still blue; when it is not covered by dreary grey cloud that is. And yet, it is different - in fact, from first sight, there is nothing to indicate just how different this world actually is. This world is technologically behind us by at least a thousand years. The people are living in an era, that we called the dark ages, but they don’t know that. Why is this the case, you may ask? I couldn’t really give you an answer, only that there are many different worlds in this universe, some more advanced than ours, some not so, some where the grass is red, some where there’s magic … Oh yes, there’s magic alright; and it exists in the world of our story, along with many forms of mythical creatures, some you’ve never even heard of … I could easily spend the whole chapter describing the many creatures that live in this world. Instead, I think it would be better if I just began the story. Yes, I think we’ll just jump straight in. We’ll start with the long journey of an old man. He’s older than he looks. By his age people normally have a crooked back and a limp, but he stood proud and tall and strode around with his big black boots stomping on the ground. This is how we first find him, walking in this manner, a determined look in his enthusiastic, grey eyes. He had been walking for several hours now. The pace was fast, and it was reasonably windy so his white robe fluttered dramatically around his ankles. His frizzy shoulder length grey and white hair was also thrown about by the wind. He was tired, but still he kept on walking. The fields around him didn’t seem to be changing, they all looked the same to him; still he walked on. He had a job to do, and he would stop at nothing to achieve it. It was a shame he didn’t know what the job actually was. All he knew was that the job was important. All he knew was where he had to go to complete this quest. The way he found out was not very pleasant. A young boy had died, in front of his eyes, by falling out of a tree. This was a few weeks ago now, but he still recalled it as vividly as if it were yesterday. He remembered how he was just leaving some village or other and he saw the boy hanging precariously off o branch at the edge of the forest. He was going to go to the boy anyway to try an help him but he got there too late. He wasn’t able to save the lad but he was able to run up to the boy just in time to hear his last words. “The palace of gold is the place that you seek!” The boy gasped in a voice that was much lower than it should have been for a boy his age. That was because it wasn’t the boy’s voice. It was the voice of the earth. This world has special ways of protecting itself. One way is by interfering in certain matters. It does this by using a thing someone once named the Artio. The Artio is the voice of the earth but it can only be heard by someone the earth itself had chosen and can only be spoken by someone who is near death and thereby closer to the earth. Evoss, the old man striding through the fields is the only person at this moment in time who can hear the Artio. He has heard it for years and has been following its advice. He could not count the deaths he had seen. Ever since he was eighteen, all the dying people he had come across all revealed some hidden truth that Evoss had used to make the world a better place. The instructions usually came in the form of a riddle, but Evoss had been doing this for so long now that the riddles were becoming much easier to solve. He knew straight away what was meant by ‘the palace of gold’. Not a palace made of gold but rather a castle that looked golden in a certain light. He had read about it in books. He had heard about it from travellers. He even knew its name. Lund-Frollio-Maccabaya! The journey to Lund-Frollio was a long and arduous one. Especially for Evoss as he lived rather far away from the place. He lived in the centre of the enormous mainland, whilst the castle was on an island to the north. That was where he was going. Why had he decided to go on foot? It was an awfully long way. Because you’re short on money! He reminded himself snappily. He didn’t have a proper job so the only money he had was the gifts and rewards he had earned and received on his travels as an Artio reader and magician. Not many people knew about the Artio, but they knew about magic. It was a rare gift though, not many people could do magic. So when people found out about Evoss’s powers, they were always asking him for help. The rewards were great and he had build up a rather large amount of money over the years, but as he had no constant income, and he had to spend his money on food, that amount was slowly decreasing. Soon he would end up with nothing again. So that was Evoss’s life, wandering around, following the Artio and completing little quests on the side. Not many possessions to call his own, and nowhere to call home. But something was going to change all that. This Artio was different to all the others.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

KAlast — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 20:24:56 -0600

Don't worry, from what I've heard, a lot of them are inaccurate. I use MS Word. When I evaluated my NaNo novel this year, it was only out by 16 words, so I thought it was pretty accurate.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

LadyStarlea — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 00:43:21 -0600

[quote=Yah00] Around midnight, Ash was suddenly very hungry. He licked his lips. Perfect timing, he thought to himself. All the stupid ones are out partying. Little do they know what is coming for them. He smiled. He was ready for a hunt. Ash was right about the good timing; midnight in the city never meant full darkness. At night, downtown glowed warm with city lights from streetlights, clubs, stores, and fluorescent signs scattered across the streets. The presence of the light always gave the night less appeal to him. But While starting a sentence with "But" isn't totally wrong it is frowned upon by many grammar Nazis using "However" can be a stronger better start then using "But" as well. he had ether put a comma here or use only one "had" ether way would work here had to learn to deal with it. And same as the But in the start only here the sentence would read better without it starting with "Though" though it was tolerable at best and very annoying at worst, the lights cutting through the black of night always meant one thing: vulnerable prey. And if Ash ever loved one thing, it was a good meal. ok the And here works From behind the curtain of the shadows, he waited. A group of girls walked by, giggling, squealing and clearly drunk. Ash’s eyes followed their bodies up and down: short skirts, heavy make-up, and ample chests. Typical, Ash thought, barely containing his annoyance. They seemed too…unhealthy. Ash clicked his tongue disapprovingly and expanded his gaze. Suddenly, he spotted a dark-haired man in the drunken crowd. Ash couldn’t make out his exact features, but he acknowledged the man’s strength and pale complexion. But that didn’t matter. It only mattered that he seemed sober. It was unusual for humans out at this time but Ash, with further examination, noticed that the man indeed hadn’t started drinking yet, and wasn’t high. He would do. Ash wasted no time. He pushed through the crowd until he was a reasonable distance from his target. Still walking, the man barely turned around. Silently, Ash laughed to himself. This would be too easy. The man still had no clue who, or rather what, was following him. Surprisingly, guilt started to creep inside Ash’s mind. His people would not have approved of this. His kind was not made for this murder. What people? Ash then thought bitterly. He had left them behind. He wanted this. Didn’t he? In his momentary lapse, Ash realized he lost his victim. “Damn,” he said. He closed his mind off to the lights, the noise of the streets, and focused only on finding the man. His eyes quickly scanned, calculating the man’s exact location. There he is. The rest was almost too easy. In long strides, he caught up to the man, who was standing outside a building; it was the latest club ~~was~~ called LA CIRQUE. He was cutting the long line and with only a brief glance at the bouncer; the man was let in. Ash could feel the resentment, anger and frustration the rest of the humans felt who were still stuck waiting in line. It made him almost feel bad for also cutting the line and being let in the club with as much ease as the dark-haired prey he was following. Almost. He smiled silently to himself. Now inside, he noticed the club was bizarre; it gave off an almost inhuman vibe. Something in the back of Ash’s mind went off. There was something Ash was missing. But the blinking, multicolored lights made his sensitive eyes hurt, and the smell of heavy alcohol mixed with other substances made the place almost unbearable. Besides, he was on a hunt. People were dancing on the floor as if in trance, which was fitting to the rhythm of the music. Most people were bizarrely expressionless – either from concentration or from the drugs. Girls propped themselves up against men who were more than pleased to have some female company. The dark-haired man was standing by the bar, turned away, talking to a blonde, curly haired girl in a tight green dress. From closer up, the man looked lean and muscular, yet he seemed a little strange. No, not strange—he seemed different. Ash couldn’t put his finger on it. His mouth salivated; he hadn’t realized just how hungry he had become. He had been so good for so long, and it felt so good to be bad. It felt natural to hunt, to feel his pulse quicken with adrenaline, and his powerful muscles tense. He was like a drug addict anticipating his next hit. All of his senses heightened. The blonde was giggling flirtatiously at something the dark-haired man said to her. “Baby, I hope I’ve mentioned that you look amazing tonight,” the man asked with hungry eyes. Listening in a little more, Ash learned the girl’s name was Rosaline. He felt her emotions as clearly as he felt the man’s. While the girl was flattered and a little drunk, the man felt – Ash didn’t know the right word— satisfied? No, he felt predatorial, Ash realized. He was now a predator hunting a predator. How ironic. The man escorted the blonde girl outside the back door, for privacy no doubt. A minor flaw in Ash’s plan, but he had to admit that he wouldn’t mind an appetizer along with his meal. Ash followed them out. The air was cool, and even with his superior vision, had a hard time seeing clearly in the shadows cast by the narrow alley. He saw the girl was pressed against the wall by the man; her breathing heavy and her fingers entwined in his hair. The sight of their intimacy made Ash’s heart go cold. He had known the price of his power, and yet… he knew he could never feel the same emotions that the girl felt. He considered himself, ironically, blessed with this lifestyle, but at rare times, it felt it was a curse. The jealousy he felt towards the man and the blonde turned quickly into anger. He positioned himself strategically behind the man; the perfect position to make the kill simple and sweet. The girl had been released from the man’s embrace and was leaned against the wall, almost unconscious. Ash’s hunter instinct told him this was the time to make his move, and he knew what he had to do. The motions had to be quick, to get both victims unconscious before they made any noise. He crouched down and began to pounce when--- The man with the dark hair turned around. A normal person would have had paled in shock at Ash’s canine-like appearance. A normal person would have been frozen in fear. A normal person would have screamed. Now, as Ash realized too late, the man was not a normal person. He was one of Ash’s own kind. Ash cursed. Both hunters froze in their place for a millisecond, silent communication passing through their clear eyes. The man had known what Ash was all along. Momentary shock gave the man a moment’s advantage. And that was all he needed. With one fluid, feline movement, he was on top of Ash, his lips parted in a smile. His teeth ripped through Ash’s flesh and blinding pain shot up in his arm. Ash mentally scolded himself while he pushed the man off of him. They circled around each other, waiting for the other to take the first offensive move. “This is my territory,” growled Ash. “Who the hell do you think you are?” “Let me make one thing clear. This,” he glanced around him, “is no longer yours.” Ash felt a deafening blow to his head, and then, darkness. [/quote] not bad some minor mistakes. Looks interesting though. Love how the predator ends up stalking another of his kind and getting attacked. Makes me want to know how it turns out. I would most likely take a gander of this at the library. Genre I think is fantasy or urban fantasy as you do have supernatural creatures in it Grade: A-/B+

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 05:41:19 -0600

Thank you for your honesty. Where is it I'm over-explaining? Is it the bit about people rarely having magic? I'd like to know so I can act on it. Thank you for your help.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Tricket — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 16:57:47 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I will say that I'm mildly interested in Liam and what's going on. I think you've got a good start, but you need some tweaking. The nitpicks: -- I would completely cut the first three sentences. While they may seem necessary, the sentiments would be better explained through narrative instead of outright telling me. It wouldn't even have to be told in the beginning, as this other place is probably a major plot point. -- I think Liam's degree of familiarity with the diner and the customs of these people needs a bit of solidification. At first, considering that he'd been in the diner/truckstop a multitude of times, the whole affair seemed casual, usual. Liam was not surprised by what he saw there. Even his question to Gwen about what to order made everything seem dull, boring (not the narrative, but his experience as a whole...). Yet, then he doesn't recognize the word egg. This really jarred me out of the story. His familiarity with this world came crashing to a halt. This would work if it had only been his second or third time in the diner, or any diner - but since he'd been in the diner almost every hour of the day... It doesn't seem plausible that he doesn't recognize the word. (It's fine if he doesn't know where they come from - actually, that's great as it offsets Liam from the world - but for him to not recognize the word... -- Gwen also needs solidification. First, for as often as Liam has come into the place, it doesn't seem likely that she wouldn't recognize him. Second, her character is a bit confused. In the beginning, she comes off as the stereotypical tough-talking truckstop waitress, unconcerned about anything she sees, but then she becomes terribly worried and sensitive to everything -- and without enough explanation. It reads as if you just needed a reason to get her out of there so she would stop polluting the scene, rather than there being an actual reason for her to leave. If she's a major character, then you definitely need to give her more of a reason to be so conflicted. If she's a filler character, then don't give her so much empathy. Honestly, in parts I was concentrating more on Gwen than Liam simply because she had more emotion going on. -- Why is Pete in the scene? Again, if he is a major character, then a bit more time needs to be spent with him; but if he's a filler, then the story would read just as well without him (as well as the waving woman... I had to re-read that several times before I really understood what was going on...) -- This spindly man interests me greatly. But I do think his immediate entrance needs a bit of tweaking. His entrance is very, very passive, and there's almost no reaction from Liam save for 'It was wrong, very wrong.' In my opinion, if you made his entrance more dangerous - the pause being caused by it, a stilling or suffocating of the air, a sudden aura, etc. - not only would the reader share in the sense of something being wrong, but it would also escalate the danger of his later actions. -The man acted first. -- I'm not really a fan of this line. Obviously, he acts first as he jumps over the table, but it didn't seem like Liam had any intention of acting to begin with. He sat there wondering who would be walking around in a snowstorm. -A woman's scream. - What woman? Is this the waving woman or Gwen? Why distant? From another room? This is a bit confusing to me. 2. Genre and age group: Supernatural fantasy - age group - adult readers 3. Shelve it or buy it: Neither at the moment - but I would definitely keep reading for a bit. As I said, you have my attention. I thing with a touch of reworking, this would be fantastic (and a buy). 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): As for a grade... maybe a C+ just because of inconsistency...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Openhome — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:37:43 -0600

I agree with everything Lady Starlea pointed out, but I would like to add that, while your protagonist's voice is strong and there is a tremendous amount of action in the scene, you've written this section in passive voice. I'd love to see what you can do in active voice. This is a strong story with an unusual twist. I'd definitely give it a look. Fantasy and urban fantasy. Plot and characterization: A- Writing style B- due to the passive voice.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 14:23:10 -0600

Thank you for that. Now on to the critique. As I suspected, this is an amazingly interesting story but you don't have the voice for the style you're trying to write in. Cut the info dumps; as I said in the previous sentence, you simply do not have that kind of voice where you can get away with info dumping. This story takes place in a world, not much different from our own. The grass is still green. The sea is still blue. The sky is also still blue; when it is not covered by dreary grey cloud that is. And yet, it is different - in fact, from first sight, there is nothing to indicate just how different this world actually is. This world is technologically behind us by at least a thousand years. The people are living in an era, that we called the dark ages, but they don’t know that. Why is this the case, you may ask? I couldn’t really give you an answer, only that there are many different worlds in this universe, some more advanced than ours, some not so, some where the grass is red, some where there’s magic … Oh yes, there’s magic alright; and it exists in the world of our story, along with many forms of mythical creatures, some you’ve never even heard of … That paragraph is entirely superfluous. Cut all of it. Another thing, if you have magic in your story, be prepared to explain the how and why of it. What I mean by this is there must always be an explanation as to why your universe deviates from the norm of ours, even if the reader never finds this piece of information out. An example of this would be: In "Flawless", magic is usable only by certain people. The how and why of this is because it is not magic at all, it just appears that way. It is in reality, technology that had been forgotten after the reset. Buy it or shelve it: Buy it, after you edited the info dumps out. Grade: B- (86) It seems like a genuinely enjoyable book, but info dumps bother the hell out of me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 19:55:36 -0600

Right, ok, thank you for that. I will work on my info dumping issue. I haven't really been sure about the first paragaph since I wrote it. I think you're right, I think it may have to go. More about the magic is explained later in the story in a less info dumpy way. I guess I was too busy trying to set the scene to worry about what it was like to read. Shall be remedied. Thank you again.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 11:57:03 -0600

Please format this correctly, then re-post so I can give you a proper critique.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Tricket — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 13:22:49 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I really like this. You use a very, very descriptive, precise language, create clear pictures, and have a very easy flow. Overall, I think this is excellent. You have a wonderful, encapsulating start to the story. My nitpicks: -- The dialogue. I don't mind info-dumps - in fact, I adore a lead-ups, but I'm not so sure about the way you phrased it here. Grant's voice sounds the same as the author - nothing really distinct about it. I think my biggest problem is that I got the feeling that Alyce was rather young (actually, a child- I think it was the history line), and using this voice for a child - this very descriptive narrator voice - seemed out of place. I do think the back-story is interesting enough to keep, and it does make for a wonderful opening, but the way it's phrased... As a dialogue itself, it doesn't lend anything to Grant, or to Alyce. One way to approach a change would be to use your narrative voice to describe the scene outside of dialogue, with certain dialogue lines given to Grant (to keep Alyce included in the story). This would allow you to solidify a difference between the narrator's voice and Grant's voice. For example, within the first paragraph, you could give the final line to Grant, but keep the rest as narrative. It might work, it might not, unsure, but... -- Vance appears without any previous description. If he is listening to the story, it might be worth it to include him in on it. The same for Garm. -- I think that I have a fairly good, basic understanding of Grant - a gruff soldier, filled with pride and glory, protective, sometimes blunt - an action man that possesses a good deal of patience. (It's fine if this is not how he actually is - this is a first impression, and even if I'm wrong, you have given something of his character which can change over time...) But, I have little feel for Alyce's character other than that I think she's a child, and she's clueless about her own history. You might try adding some action to her interruptions - like how she holds herself around the fire, how she looks at Grant as he's explaining things - this will make the reader more curious about her - and the same goes for Vance and Garm. -- a grizzled bearded figure - Very descriptive, but it interupts the flow. Grizzled or bearded would work, with the latter descriptor coming in later?? Unsure... -- never say we die - Never say die would be less jarring, or maybe something else... It just read very strangely, that's all. However, wonderful opening. I really enjoyed it. 2. Genre and age group: Science fiction 3. Shelve it or buy it: At this point, even with the nitpicks, this would be something I would consider buying. I really enjoyed it. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Openhome — Sun, 29 Jan 2012 00:47:54 -0600

You have the beginnings of an interesting story, but I also felt like the story wasn't yet solid, and neither were the characters. -If Liam is new to the earth, how did he know the diner was like the kind you find in small towns? How did he know the posters were vintage? -He doesn't act like a boy, which is good if he's an alien, but wouldn't he at least try to? -The egg thing threw me off as well, as did Gwen. -I'd love to see more interplay between Liam and Gwen. Show me, don't tell me. -I love how much tension the story has from the beginning. Liam is an interesting and conflicted character whose story I'd like to know more about. However, written as it is now, I'd shelve it because the story makes no sense from the outset. Tighten it up, and I'd definitely give it a try. Grade for the plot and setting: A- Grade for characterization and world building C

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 19:07:36 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): This beginning really throws you straight into the action. This can be a good thing, but then it moves swiftly on and changes scene so the reader could potentially become a little confused as to what's going on. The atmosphere given off is certainly very eerie, so it works well. However, I think the invasion of so many names in one go is a little overwhelming. First Kokoro, then King - I've read this twice over and can't work out if they're the same person or not. There are also a few small pieces of writing that bug me a little. 'She ended on a low note, predicting doom and disaster for the atheistic majority of the country.' The tone of this sounds like the narrator is mocking the girl, as if they've heard it all before. As I went on however I realised that they are not meant to be making fun of her, so I think this could be worded slightly differently. It's just the use of 'predicting doom and disaster' that bugs me somehow. 'Like brown tar, her hair clung with its own weight to her head. Grime accumulated over a week or more of not bathing made her appear darker than I knew her to be' This is me being nitpicky, but I know for a fact that it takes more than a week to look like that. =P Because of my psoriasis I can only shower/bathe once a week and wash my hair less than that, and I don't look a different colour to my normal tone or have greasy hair. Just a little real-life reference for you. You may want to add even more time to that description to make it seem worse. ;) Unless, of course, she is in a particularly dirty place. Then that would make sense, but it would need mentioning, I think. 'Or was it just the eventual result of mans evolution; no one could say for sure.' There should be an apostrophe in 'mans' to make it 'man's'. 'Shadows cast by the candles scattered around the room danced across her sunken eyes, giving the appearance that she didn’t have eyes.' The repetition of 'eyes' is jarring. Maybe change the last part to 'giving the appearance that she didn't have any' instead. 'Spasming worse than an epileptic, I attempted to put out the flames consuming me' This sounds less dramatic than it should. 'Spasming worse than an epileptic' doesn't sound right, it's quite awkward. Also, 'attempted to put out' sounds too... calm, you know? Maybe 'I writhed on the ground, flailing desperately to put out the flames that consumed me' or something. 2. Genre and age group: Fantasy, YA/adult 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve, just out of personal preference/some clunkiness in the writing 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): C+

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

SpaceMarine — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 10:41:04 -0600

Hey, thanks for the critique. Most of the problems you mentioned are because of my dislike of exposition. I don't describe everything at once, but gradually over several pages. Alyce gets a better description in the next few chapters (she's 20.) If it can show it, I won't explain it. Though thanks, I'll clean that up a little bit.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Chaos-Insanity — Sun, 25 Dec 2011 20:27:20 -0600

Thank you for your critique. About the grime, it has been more than a week since she's bathed (about a month actually) but the narrator isn't sure of how long it's been so the sentence was phrased uncommitted to the real timeline.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

SpaceMarine — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 11:03:55 -0600

This is a somewhat intriguing story you've started here. It took me a while to get into it but when I did I rather enjoyed it. Critique: First off, your story has the same problem most of the other stories in this thread do: the opening expository paragraph. All it does is provide a confusing series of images and bore the reader. Get rid of it, and find a way to incorporate the details with the action. IE: "she awoke to the sound of the birds chirping." When I got past that opening paragraph however, I rather enjoyed the rest of the story. I liked how you used the news to set up the world you're writing about. I'm sorry, critique isn't my strong point. Genre: Science Fiction/Romance? Shelve It or Buy it: I'd sit down at Barnes and Nobles and read the first few chapters, but you have my attention. Score: (A,B,C,D, or out of 100): B+ 87

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 05:50:08 -0600

You're welcome. :) That makes sense then, haha.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Rushshock — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 19:39:24 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): I enjoyed reading what you have so far. Honestly, I think this is great. Your style is a breath of fresh air. My style is more descriptive and comparing. So this is a really nice read. Having said that, this first chapter plays the guessing game, which is good. I hope you intend to explain it out more in the book (well of course!) I like your dialogue although, her name doesn't need to be said as much as it is. Also, it's not in format. Meaning, the each time someones speaks it should start a new line like: "Billy! Hey billy!" Sam said "YO SAM!" Billy said back. That sorta thing. I can find a few small grammar mistakes, but I won't go into them because their not really noticeable and as far as editing grammar goes, your story looks good so far. Again, I really like your dialogue it's probably the most striking thing about the beginning. 2. Genre and age group: Young Readers...fiction? I think possibly. 3. Shelve it or buy it: Buy it! I'd be very interested in reading it, it has potential as long as you keep at it. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): Some where between a c+ and a b-. You need to add more, this beginning feels a little rushed.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 15:41:50 -0600

Haha, I know, my first paragraphs are always terrible infodumps recounting the scenery. I just have to splurge them out before I can get to writing anything else. XD I actually had a sentence I was really pleased with right after the 1000 word limit too! =P Thanks for the crit. :) You got the genre spot on!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 19:25:14 -0600

Critique: I loved this. I'm not heavily into poetry, but I do love the music of language, and I thought this flowed seamlessly and beautifully. I felt borne along by this little wave of words - and now I want to know what happens next. In the spirit of offering some kind of suggestion - I think you're missing a word here: “Surely the one already have” I think is meant to be "Surely the one I already have" Genre: I would have to guess fantasy of some kind. No idea on the age range. Shelve it or buy it: I'd buy it, assuming the rest was of similar quality. It's unusual, it's lyrical, and it made me smile. Grade: A. Seriously, even if it's "just" a poem - this is wonderful.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Thalia06 — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:43:41 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): This is good, really good. Now let's see how well I do criticizing it. Much like SpaceMarine mentioned you're first paragraph is a problem, I had to force myself not to skim over it. Good description, just not the right way to start the story off. The soft cacophony of morning sounds eventually managed to filter into Casey’s sleep-fogged brain and startle her into wakefulness. She jumped slightly as she opened her eyes to be greeted by the sight of sunlight streaming in through the large window beside her bed, before screwing up her face and rolling over, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. In doing so she almost bumped noses with the other inhabitant of the bed, blinking in surprise for a second before laying her head down again on the pillow with a tiny smile on her face. 2. Genre and age group:Sci-Fi 3. Shelve it or buy it: Most definitely buy, I am intrigued, I want to know more... 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 19:49:59 -0600

Thanks so much! :) Yup, that paragraph is being cut in the rewrite. Most definitely.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Thalia06 — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 20:14:27 -0600

woops, hit the sumit button too soon, here's the rest of my critique: The soft cacophony of morning sounds eventually managed to filter into Casey’s sleep-fogged brain and startle her into wakefulness. She jumped slightly as she opened her eyes to be greeted by the sight of sunlight streaming in through the large window beside her bed, before screwing up her face and rolling over, rubbing her eyes with the heel of her palm. In doing so she almost bumped noses with the other inhabitant of the bed, blinking in surprise for a second before laying her head down again on the pillow with a tiny smile on her face. Why so jumpy? Why does the sunlight make her jump, why does bumping into her husband surprise her, questions to be answered later? “One word. Breakfast.” Casey smirked as Rikani hurried to scramble out of bed in a flurry of limbs and perform a hasty bow once he’d reached the relative safety of the floor. “Of course, of course. Your humble servant made the terrible mistake of forgetting that Miss Layabout Writer is simply too tired to fetch her own breakfast and thus must have it done for – guh!” His sentence was cut off in a startled exclamation as Casey threw a pillow at his face. “Charming.” The first of these paragraphs bugs me. Did you mean to add an -ed to performed? Otherwise I thought it could be a bit confusing. Take out "in a flurry of limbs" and it would work. I don't know, maybe I'm overthinking it. The next paragraph: Don't repeat yourself, in my opinion the fact that he says, "guh!" clearly tells the reader that he makes "a startled exclamation." Take one of them out. Personally I would take out the "guh" and leave the rest. The reported laughed softly, replying as Rikani headed back into the room with Casey’s breakfast on a tray. “We’ve been informed that since the old models have rather outdated CPUs, they probably won’t even be much use to send to primary schools to allow children to become used to using simple computers as planned. I’d imagine they’ll all be scrapped.” A little thing here, I would change "as Rikani headed back" to "as Rikani entered back" or something similar simply because you aren't in the kitchen with Rikani so you can't head back to the bedroom. Another little thing overall is that I feel Casey is a little too aware that Rikani is an android. If that is your purpose then good, otherwise as a reader I would prefer little hints like the cold lips, etc. Such awareness would fit better if it were from Rikani's perspective. My two cents. I had a lot of fun reading this and you left me wanting to read more. Great job:)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Wed, 28 Dec 2011 10:11:43 -0600

Thanks! NaNo seems to be borking everyone's forum posts at the moment, haha. XD Now that you mention it I can see quite a few typos in there that need correcting along with everything else. And I agree about making Rikani's existence as an android more subtle. :) Thanks again for the crit! :D

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 21:19:52 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): Most of this is really well done, well written and very easy for me to read, except for one or two things. Grant I notice tends to speak in huge chunks of text... this is annoying to the eye and I constantly found myself trying to skip over it and get to the shorter pieces (I did go back and read it all though lol). If you could break up what he is saying a bit more, that would be great, and make it easier to physically read. the sentences themselves I didnt have huge problems with. 'they were too cold for full sentences'... I know you mean only Bellion and Vance were too cold, but the context in which you have it makes it sound like ALL of them are too cold for full sentences, which makes no sense as Grant is certainly yabbering on, and Alyce had a bit of a sentence or two to say herself. I had to do a double take to figure it out. Why are they too cold and Grant isnt? Maybe they left their extra jackets behind, or something, or Grant is older and more experienced and put an extra one on, I don't know, but something like that would help it make more sense. The very last sentence... 'never say we die'... nothing wrong with it, just when I hear those words I immediately think Pirates of the Carribbean. Personally I might tweak it, but it doesn't detract from the story at all and in fact if I had more to read it might even be the only way you can way you can put the sentiment so that it holds significance, if you see what I mean. Other than that, its great! I like the way you start with someone talking about a past action, and then a trigger action comes along and they launch into real action (a lot of people might say that you shouldnt start with a backflash but in this case I like it, and it was obvius to me this was someone talking). 2. Genre and age group:Sci-Fi, maybe fantasy. Seems a bit Star Warsish to me so far (thats not a bad thing lol). Not sure about the age group, teens-adults maybe? 3. Shelve it or buy it: Providing it had a nice cover, I think I would buy. Already at this stage I want to know more. (yeah, I'm one of those people who judges a book by its cover. So sue me =D ) 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A, maybe around 94 or so.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 02:11:21 -0600

"No hay otra manera?" "There is no way."

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

louisebrooks — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 06:10:30 -0600

1. Critique: I agree with the poster above about the longer chunks of text being difficult to read- maybe try breaking them up with the characters actions? I found it took a little too long to get going but I liked the action at the end. I would also be tempted to start with Alyce's question of "what happened?" and get to the exciting bit with the flares much sooner. You could work the exposition in later. I liked the atmosphere of the little group huddled around the fire. 2. Genre: Sci-Fi probably for adults 3. Shelve it or buy it: As it is I probably wouldn't buy it. If the action happened sooner then I would probably be unable to put it down.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

louisebrooks — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 06:24:02 -0600

1. Critique: I liked this. You've created a nice sense of character- Maia being curious/nosy, Jem being unfriendly. A good use of dialogue. You have a couple of superfluous sentences "A lucky thing then that I was the daughter of a saddler, with a mother who trained horses for a living." this is established much better by the fact she is polishing a saddle in her father's workshop- I don't think you need to state it. You've also established that it's a summer evening and then you say "that afternoon was like no other" and then "I squinted as the morning sunlight hit my eyes". I would also like some more descriptions of the place (this might just be my personal taste). All I know is that we're in a small village and there's a linden tree. What else can you tell me? Is the workshop old- been in the family for generations- or have they only recently been established? Are they profiting or is the workshop falling into disrepair? Are they near a city (can you see it on the horizons) or are they surrounded by farmland, or grassy plains, or mountains, or forest? Genre and age group: YA fantasy? Because she expects the horse to talk- or was that just a joke? With a possible romantic plot? Shelve it or buy it: Buy it. I want to know where this is going! Score: A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

miss skeletonfish — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 11:58:22 -0600

1. Critique: The first sentence is a bit...too much. There is something magic about polishing leather until it gleams [with a muted luminescence in even the dullest of lights.] It's a tad dramatic. Cut what you don't absolutely need from it. Luminescence doesn't feel like the right word here, feels out of place...and the second half of the sentence drags on a bit. Watching the dirt and grime melt away until nothing is left but the supple hide underneath [is one of my favourite pastimes in the world.] I would say you could do fine without the last part. Leave it a fragment. She's dreaming about leather, just looking at it, reading how she describes it. That's more than enough to tell that it's one of her favorite things to do. You don't need to specify it; it's already obvious. A lucky thing then that I was the daughter of a saddler, with a mother who trained horses for a living. I want to say that the sentence doesn't need to be this long. You could probably cut the latter half. Or all of it, really...considering that she's polishing leather in just a few paragraphs. But...I don't dislike the way it sounds. The comma almost feels a bit awkward, though. “Excuse me [,]sir, but I’ve been told you might be able to help me with my saddle.” Sitting in my [Dad’s] workshop, I was scrubbing an old bridle with his homemade leather soap, hands all wrinkly from the water[,] when a shadow appeared in the doorway, blocking my light. There are a lot of commas here. And pieces that can be removed. You can cut the first section out, but if you keep, I don't think that "Dad" would be capitalized unless the MC is speaking to him, calling him by that as a name. Here, she's just referring to him as her father. You can isolate the "blocking my light" and make it its own sentence or keep. My point, it's a little long for a sentence and doesn't need to be. You have a few sentences like that, so take note of it when editing. [...]He undid the girth, murmuring words I didn’t understand to the stallion as he did so, before sliding the saddle off and carrying it easily on one arm back to the workshop. You can probably start a new paragraph with that. Once the stallion was watered[...] It sounds strange to me to water a stallion like you might water a plant. You mention the use of a tree. And in particular, a broken one. Could just be me...but I haven't the slightest idea what that is. [...]“Now,” Dad said, straightening. “You must be thirsty. Maia, please take our guest inside and get him something to eat and a drink, and inform your mother he’ll be staying for a week or two. I’ll be along once I finish up here.” New paragraph. “I have a mare, Minnie. My mother trains and breeds them. Dad just makes their saddles, and other pieces. I help them both.” In the beginning, you said that her father made saddles and her mother bred horses; you say that once more here. You do not need to say it in the beginning. I like the dialogue. It feels natural and it gives off a very nice sense of character to everyone, really, but Jem and Maia especially. Remember to vary your sentence length and keep care to watch out for sentences that are too long or ones with too much description and adjectives you don't need. Omit needless words and you'll strengthen your sentences. Genre and age group: YA fantasy, laced with romance. Shelve it or buy it: Doesn't seem like my cup of tea as yet, but the characters are interesting enough--I'd say buy. Score: B -- Not perfect, but you're off to a good start. Just need some polish and you're on your way.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

J_S_C — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 02:11:49 -0600

Doh, "There is no other way."

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Mallorca Writer — Fri, 30 Dec 2011 08:05:03 -0600

"No, debe haber otra forma," is so over the top and melodramatic that it made me laugh when I read it. I think phrasing it as a question--"No hay otra manera?" sounds more natural. But perhaps you are going for laughs?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:51:03 -0600

Thankyou =) You have given me a few things to think about (btw, yes, it is a joke XD I talk to my horses all the time and am constantly surprised that they actually can't answer me back, but also yes, it is a YA fantasy =) ). Now... I think I have some work to do =)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 22:00:52 -0600

Ahh thankyou! You have spotted a lot of things I didn't feel quite right about but couldn't pinpoint... I'm glad I've had two responses now saying the dialoge feels very natural, as that was one of the things I was worried about... Watered. That is actually what you call it. You water your horse. I suppose for publication though I could make it something like once he'd finished drinking... so that people who don't know the term can still understand it. That might be better. Tree. A saddle is built around a frame that is known as a 'tree'. I have no idea why it is called that, but it is. If you break it, because of the way a saddle interacts with a horses' back, you really need to get it sorted because it can seriously hurt their back. I guess coz I'm into horses it is just a term I am familiar with and again perhaps I should clarify for those who aren't. Perhaps throw a line in somewhere somehting like, 'dad was looking at the frame upon which the saddle was built'? That sounds icky, but something like that... Thankyou again! You have given me lots to think about, I need to get to work now haha =)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

BloodRoseAngel — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 17:53:57 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): This is well-written, especially the beginning, and I like the pacing, but there are a few things that bother me. 'My son. Logan. Where’s Logan?!?!? He frantically thought as he tried to stand, tears filling his eyes.' Take out the multiple explanation/question marks. They might add drama in a comic or something but they don't work in a novel, they just make it look comical. “Seriously, thanks. I love you dad.” Sorry to be nitpicky, but I think 'dad' should begin with a capital letter, and I think there should be a comma between 'you' and 'Dad'. 'But then she smiled.' 'But' isn't usually used to start a sentence unless in exceptional circumstances, like when it's used to add drama or something. Also, I think this sentence should still be in the paragraph before. '“I suppose I can let them watch TV as long as they don’t run around here.” she said...' Another nitpick. The dialogue should end with a comma - dialogue never ends in a full stop unless the following word begins a new sentence. '“Get your brothers and play in the living room.” Macy said, putting her hands over her mouth as she watched the shot and read the headline.' I think the first part of this sentence would work without the description of what she's doing, personally. You can sense her shock from her sudden wording, telling the children to leave the room. I think the additional details take away from that. 'He was obviously upset, and shamelessly sobbed at the scene.' This could have more drama, especially if you changed 'upset' to something else, like 'distraught' for example. Other than that, the beginning is well-paced and quickly draws the reader in. I think, unless the chapters that follow are about the lead-up to the crash - which I suspect they are - I'd like more detail about the characters so you care about them more. :) 2. Genre and age group: Literary/teenage fiction, teen/YA 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve, but simply out of personal preference. I only read fantasy xD; If it was revised and neatened up a bit, it would be closer to a buy. :) 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): B

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Sat, 31 Dec 2011 18:01:14 -0600

Thanks! I really haven't gone in depth with this yet, and your critique helped. [quote] Other than that, the beginning is well-paced and quickly draws the reader in. I think, unless the chapters that follow are about the lead-up to the crash - which I suspect they are - I'd like more detail about the characters so you care about them more. :) [/quote] You nailed it on the head. This is a sequel, so a few characters have been introduced before, like Ben, Macy, and the doctor. Logan and Cassidy had a brief appearance last time. Overall, thanks! :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:53:28 -0600

oh gosh, need that edit button... also yes, it is supposed to be afternoon... I do sillies like that all the time, I'm afraid. That's why I need lovely people like you to point them out for me lol and get my brain into gear.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

miss skeletonfish — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 05:10:29 -0600

You're very welcome! And as to the watering, I think if it's a common enough term, it's fine to keep (I know next-to-nothing about horses). You might want to mention why it is important that the tree was broken, how it's not something that's an easy fix, and that it could seriously injure the horse. I think a sentence of info-dump and of her just pondering how you break something like that, monologue, would be the best way to incorporate those facts, making it sound as natural as possible. Though it's always tough to just inject information into a story... And looking back on it, I missed something. “I have a mare, Minnie. My mother trains and breeds them. Dad just makes their saddles[,] and other pieces. I help them both.” No comma. You could also probably cut the "other pieces" out because saying he "just makes their saddles" is probably enough. Anytime, and good luck!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fuzz — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 07:04:52 -0600

1. Critique I really liked it. This was intriguing enough that I struggled to look for problems while I was reading it. It's a very good place to start and I definitely would keep on reading. You gave plenty of hooks without giving too much away at once. There were a couple of places where personally, I'd have put commas and your punctuation is a little different from mine but basically, you've got good grammar, which makes it much easier to read. The pace is good. So, yeah, struggling to find too many things wrong with it, actually. Good job :) 2. Genre and Age Group Not a kid's book. Apart from that, I'm not sure. 3. Grade A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

mistygal01 — Wed, 04 Jan 2012 18:22:05 -0600

Perhaps she could throw in a quick 'is your horse okay?' or something... that sort of concern on behalf of the horse would be characteristic of Maia and also would allow me to pop in a quick sentence explaining that she was concerned because a broken tree can damage a horses back. I'm going to sit down today and try to get started on seome serious rewrites... thanks again for all your help =)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

tinkerbinker — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 22:05:53 -0600

I wish this was edited for the web (Full line breaks), but I'm just going to split it and go over each paragraph. Which means this will be a huge post, apologies in advance. [quote]“I am either the world’s greatest fool or Apera’s greatest hero. I suspect I am a mix of both,”[/quote] This line is great! But I do have to ask, is this the very first line? If it is you'll want to try something besides dialogue for the first line. Also, may I ask why the comma at the end of the sentence? Commas are a pause and periods are an end to a sentence, and this one definitely needs an end since your character doesn't continue on talking. [quote]No answer. Irida moved a finger to trace the silver pendant around her neck. Paused. That familiar weight was gone. That chain had hung around her throat for so long that she now felt naked without it. Naked and alone. It was an unpleasant combination and yet somehow the maelstrom of powerful emotions she had weathered recently made her hollow. There was nothing left of her to feel this new pain. That was good, because it left her with some measure of peace for her quiet reflection. One thought hung large and ugly at the forefront of her mind – had she made the right decision?[/quote] I like this paragraph! It draws me in and get me interested, but I feel a little jolted out of the flow by the one word sentences. It's mostly the first, because that could be combined nicely with the previous sentence. Instead of "Irida moved a finger to trace the silver pendant around her neck. Paused." maybe try bringing it together with something like this? "Irida moved a finger to trace the silver pendant around her neck and paused." It's a simple change, and really make the paragraph flow together a bit more gracefully. [quote]She lifted her face to the sky, Ether, watch me and only me this night. [/quote] I admit, I don't know if the character is thinking or speaking in this. If thinking still put in quotation marks and add in italics to show the reader. Otherwise you'll leave your readers furrowing their brows and wondering what kind of narration change just happened. That being said I like the mention of Ether, it helps set a few things up and brings the world a little bit clearer to me. [quote]The clouds swirled like curls of molten ore and the silent morning held its breath, as though it knew what was to come. The wind that caressed her skin and cooled her blood whispered tauntingly of unspoken secrets and unfulfilled possibilities. [/quote] Perhaps remove the comma, but other then that this flow incredibly well. It's just the rigth amount of prose without it going overboard, and adds an extra element to your writing. [quote]Your temptations cannot sway me,” she told the day softly, “My path is chosen, the hard road past. All I must do now is walk forward,”[/quote] This is good, but for the comma ending a sentence again. [quote]Still, the city was beautiful. Apera’s capitol, Awnn was always the loveliest in those sparing moments after the moon had fallen and the sun had yet to peek over the horizon. It was normally peaceful but now the glistening grey looked only like the ether above the stars. It interrupted her introspection, stirring thoughts better left at the bottom of her mind. The force that had created the world was not meant to be sentient and so it should welcome back her stained soul as though it were purest light. A force of nature could not judge sins. But if she truly believed that, then why had she only then prayed to the entity? [/quote] In this case you're missing a comma in here right after Awnn "Apera’s capitol, Awnn was always the loveliest in those sparing moments after the moon had fallen and the sun had yet to peek over the horizon." but other then that this paragraph reads very well. [quote]The sun began to rise, bleeding scarlet over her silver sky. It was time. She wished again for the comfort of her pendant but reminded herself not to be selfish. She had already let the poor shade within the necklace die once and to repeat history would only be cruel. [/quote] I really like the short sentence in this one as it helps with the flow instead of working against it. I also love the mention of the shade, and would love to find out more about this sort of thing. [quote]She looked one last time over the city she had made her home. Light struck on the distantly white walls that guarded Awnn’s rest. Bright, too bright, an accusation to her guilty soul. The grounds of the castle spread beneath her, an opulent square of patchwork in a wide sea of dirty brown. [/quote] This paragraph might have a little bit much purple prose, but I like it even so. Despite it maybe having a bit much i wouldn't suggest changing it. [quote]It was not good, this divide between nobleman and peasant. Once Awnn had been more prosperous but the War of the Dead had hurt Apera badly. It had not been a popular war. As the men loyal to the crown had fallen in battle, the number of rebels back in the capitol swelled like a malignant pustule. House Faolan held the castle still but everyone who cared to look knew that the rebels held the city. It no longer mattered to Irida, although still she feared the revolution to come. The rebels’ regime change would cost first the capitol of Awnn and then all of Apera, rivers in blood. [/quote] In this case I do wonder if you could work the war into the story another way, otherwise we're getting a lot of information in one small paragraph. But even so I like the way that you describe the war, and this wouldn't keep me from reading on and enjoying what I'm reading. [quote]She reflected a moment, on her life and what she had achieved. She had been a daughter, a sister – for far too short a time – often a lover, always a mother but never a wife. She had been a healer, a necromancer, and a councilor. She had held more power than most women from as poor a background as she were capable of conceiving. She had mixed with kings as an equal and often she had been a truth-teller, a voice of reason when thick skulls prevented thought from reaching mouths. For the past six years, she had been a prisoner. No longer. [/quote] i like this paragraph until the last two sentences. Then I'm jarred out of the flow once more. Perhaps try something more along the lines of "For the past six years she had been a prisoner, but no longer..." It feels less jarring, and to me seems to add more emotion to what is being said. [quote]She turned away from her balcony and strode quickly through the unnaturally silent chambers that she held in the castle. Once she had called them home but they were no longer that, not without the shouting of boisterous children or the mewling of her daughter’s cat. There was nothing left worth gazing upon, nothing to be reflected on that she had not already mused over. Her plan was carried out, no problems left to try and foresee. Walking briskly, she left her rooms, picking up a small velvet bag from a table on her way without breaking stride. [/quote] This one is good but for the first sentence. You don't really need the "that she held in the castle" as you have "Once she had called them home but they were no longer that" directly afterwards. It just feels like a repetition of the same thought. Other then that I like the way you present the information and enjoyed reading this. [quote]As soon as she emerged into communal hallways, she gathered a following of servants. Oh, they were subtle about it but since her ‘mental breakdown’ six years prior, they had always been present. It was not uncommon for mages gifted in the subtle magics to misplace their sanity. There had not been one moment in the past twenty years that Irida had not been assaulted by the glow of an aura or the flare of a detached soul. Magesight was not truly sight in the conventional sense and so rather than blinding you, the ceaseless stimulus wore at your mind. However, Irida was not yet insane. [/quote] This one I can't find any faults with. It flows well, it brings out interesting information, and it gathers my attention into this part of the story. [quote]Her famous breakdown had been her response to a threat. The king, Bryant Faolan, a man that she had once cared for, had shown his true colours. He had backed Irida into a corner she hadn’t liked it. She could still remember the hot tongues of rage that had driven her to walk around the castle throwing around so much magic that she collapsed with fatigue and screaming so loudly that she had lost her voice for days after. It had been a mistake, for then Bryant had been given an excuse to restrict her movements. It always smarted when even now, noblemen and women used her supposed madness to dismiss when her views conflicted with theirs. She loathed the toxic sympathy and the furtive glances, eyes that would not quite hold her own. [/quote] I like this except for this one sentence "The king, Bryant Faolan, a man that she had once cared for, had shown his true colours." We don't really need his name used in the sentence that way because it really interrupts the flow. You could try something like this "The king, a man that she had once cared for, had shown his true colours.". It flows a bite more and will avoid jarring the reader out of the story. In conclusion! I greatly enjoyed the excerpt and it's something I would buy if I came across it in the store, but there are a few things that need work. Grammar in terms of how the commas are used, flow and a little bit less purple prose in places. However these are minor changes and the great bits, the plot and characters, are vibrant and bring me into the story. I was more then a little disappointed when I came to the end and found there was nothing more to read. All in all, a good work that just needs a little tweaking!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 08:36:30 -0600

[quote=louisebrooks] I used to always be an early riser but I had fallen out of the habit. By the green light of the digital clock on the oven, I saw that it was almost eleven a.m. and I hadn’t even opened the curtains yet. I gripped the faded fabric tightly. I wanted the apocalypse to have started. Burning bodies lying in the dark, survivors moaning for water. The devil to walk the earth, pulling sinners down to hell. I wanted to look out on the decaying remains of our world, to smile at the folly of humanity that we thought we were indestructible. The destruction of the world would match the destruction in my life. [/quote] Your first chapter is fine, even terrific. I do worry, however, what the tenor of the rest of the story will be like. Will it be one prolonged anguished mourning for Serena or will there be happy triumphs, however minor, interspersed midst the general anguish? It would be really something if you could pull off a happy ending that isn't forced or gratuitous. But to return to chapter one, I especially enjoyed the narrator/protagonist's wish for the apocalypse. There's a humor in it which promises that the narrator won't allow his/her circumstances to stymy his/her spirit for too long, which is reinforced by the refrain "Not this time.Not today." Still, I suspect a good portion of the story will double back to Serena's fate, which will make your task a delicate balancing act between grief and hope. For the reader's sake, I hope there'll be more of the latter, or at least enough of the latter to offset the anguish which is clearly the story's initial driving force.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kane Caston — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 17:51:51 -0500

[quote=Cool Author] one FBI Agent Dale Rodden sat in his car, dunking a straw into his cup of coffee and stirring. His black car was sitting idle in front of the coffee shop from which Dale had bought his coffee. A sudden explosion startled him and he dropped his coffee, and it sloshed all over him, wettening his pants. “Aw, man.” He muttered as he pulled out his handgun and loaded it. “It looks like I wet...never mind. What the heck's going on out there?” He got out of his car and noticed a crowd gathering around a car that had become a ball of flame. He pulled out a cell phone with his free hand and punched in a few numbers. “Yeah, Collins, we got a car that's been...whatever. It's just flames now. Get on over here.” He said, speaking to another FBI agent. He made his way over to where the destroyed car was, and wielded his gun. “All right, everyone away.” The crowd reluctantly moved back. “Did any of you see what happened?” Dale asked them, holding the gun pointing to the sky. The crowd shook their heads. Dale was about to say that they were all going to be held for questioning, but he heard the sound of helicopter propellers in the sky. “What the heck?” He murmered as he glanced up at the sky, seeing a war helicopter up and armed. Almost the last thing he saw was a man at the side of the helicopter loading a rocket launcher. “You've got to be kidding.” Dale muttered under his breath as he fired into the sky at the helicopter. The explosion of a gun told him that the rocket had been fired. The absolute last thing that he saw was the crowd gasping and he hoped that most of them had gotten away before the explosion, which killed him and whoever was close enough. Charles Backlund was the leader of the WDP Organization, which stood for World Domination Program. He was a bald, heavier set man, and he, when holding a gun, had the most pleasure when he was pointing it at someone. Particularly their head. Right now he sat in his office, which was, at the moment, a small shack in the middle of the suburbs of New York City, a shack that was so horribly built and cracking to pieces. The small fan at the ceiling of the roof turned and creaked, but provided no source of cooling or comfort. Especially in the heat of this summer. Backlund's face was covered in sweat and grime that had festered over the liquid in the past two hours that he had been sitting at his shabby desk without wiping the sweat from his brow. When he got up, finally, his legs refused to work and so he groaned and sat back down, massaging them and making them waken to heed his needs. When they finally sunk into submission, he got up and reached for the door. When he opened it, the thing flew off its hinges and smashed into the cracked plaster wall, creating a huge hole, and causing plaster shards to spill and decorate the floor. “Come on, dang it.” Muttered Backlund, walking out through the doorless exit. He walked into another room, one that was in the same state as the one that he had just come from, and walked into another WDP agent, all dressed in a black suit, and, Backlund noticed, had a handgun in his suit. This is only the beginning. [/quote] Unless this is satire? I hope it's satire? Please god let it be satire? Otherwise it's utter tosh.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 15:28:20 -0600

@ bluebeanie41496 That was a lot to take in for the first chapter but you write with force and clarity so nothing was lost. There was one part I found awkward though, the part where Kalina gets bit and Aposto, having dispatched of the Terror, asks Kalina how he/she is and offers him/her his hand. It felt as if the action, which was fast and furious, suddenly came to a halt. Obviously, you wanted to highlight the fact that Kalina was bit (as the whole story is going to revolve around it) but I wonder if you could've made it not as conspicuous so as to keep the illusion of fighting as fast and furious as you initially made it seem . Other than that, the chapter is well conceived, the narrator's voice strong, and the story engaging.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Bent Letters — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 07:07:42 -0600

Hi Fuzz PART 1) The critique, A) QUALITY OF WRITING (80) The overall writing is solid, crisp, and enjoyable, but could be tighter in places. Example, avoid overused wording. "jolting me into consciousness, Horror constricted my throat, etc." Example, a useless adverb ends this sentence - "He grabbed his muddy bag from the ground and slung it over his shoulder easily"....Why was it easy for this character? Why should it be hard for that matter? You made no mention of the bag's weight. If you want to demonstrate this character's physical strength, this is a lazy way to do it. B) CONFLICT (95) and C) POV (100), no major problems here D) CHARACTER (65) Weak characters. Unbelievable emotional reactions. I'll use Bistra as my primary target cause I can't believe she is a real person. BTW, I'm into the ninth paragraph before I'm even aware that she is indeed a she. (I'll get more into that in setting) SO, why does Bistra give their position away. Is she really that stupid? What is wrong with her? Is she mentally incompetent? Why doesn't your main character just ditch this idiot girl? Is your POV character a sweet heart looking out for her because he feels sorry for her? Does he have a thing for her? Why does he not scream at her when she gives their position away? I know I would be angrier than hell. "THIS IS THE LAST TIME BISTRA. YOU HEAR ME. THE LAST TIME." I would be wagging my finger at her face. Your POV character never confronts her about this horrible gaff. Does she feel admonished and guilty for giving their position away? e) SETTING (70) I get a little sense of the setting, but not enough. Simply give me some key, vivid details so I can orient myself in the time and place. Where are they? What's around them? What time is it? Who is around? I gather its not Earth, by the mention of elves, but I can't be sure. Is this a fantasy world? Is this the Mohave desert? Is it desert like? Are their dunes for miles and miles. Are there cities or villages anywhere near? Is it day or night? I can't tell. Also, a key detail or two about the characters as you introduce them. Like the fact that Bistra is a she when first introduced would be helpful. Is she short, tall, athletic, smart, stupid? Is Aposto skinny, fat, in between. I don't want a paragraph's worth of telling me every thing about them, just something relevant to make them stand out in my mind. The beautiful Bistra, long in the legs and short on brains, .... Also the creatures could use a bit of vivid touch up. Are they identical? Do they have individual features? Did one look bigger than the rest? Were they all clothed? Was one naked? F) PLOT (50) Inconsistent cause and effect. This is really the killer here to your piece. Someone else already alluded to how it seemed artificial for Aposto not to further press the POV character about the possibly of being bitten. Aposto conveniently finds something to preoccupy himself, even though it is not important enough of an event to mention to the reader what he is preoccupying himself with. This is a killer. Would real people react this way? If someone had given my position away and got me bitten by one of the terrors, it would cause a great degree of friction between me and that person. Yet, your POV character never shows any credible reaction to Bistra's idiotic move to speak out loud when Terrors are around. Not buying it !!! If your POV character is so amiable that he would never be mad at Bistra for getting him bit, then you have to provide a setup of his character to make that believable. Is he some kind of uber forgiving religious type? g) THEME (70) Theme comes out of every sentence you write. "Dragging footsteps began to pound softly nearby..." Is this supposed to provoke fear and horror. How can pound and softly even work together as viable combination. The hammer pounded softly. No, a hammer pounds hard. It's a hammer. How do you want the reader to feel in this chapter where the characters are hiding from the Terrors? Afraid? What words are associated with the fear we should feel (through the characters) about these creatures being nearby? creepy, terrible, disgusting, horrid, gaunt, morbid, etc. ...All around us, I could hear the gaunt scrapings of the dead dragging their rotting feet across the shale, creeping nearer, intensifying. PART 2) Genre & Age Group horror/fantasy for teens and up Part 3) Shelve it or Buy it Shelve it for now Part 4) overall score of 75, lots of potential, nicely written, but suffers from poor direction and lack of vivid details. The Plot (cause and effect) really hampered me getting into the characters while a lack of vivid details left me feeling disoriented in the story. I had a hard time either figuring out or simply believing things were happening they way they did (What caused them to be out testing water in the first place? is this routine? Or a special situation the three volunteered for? What state are they in? Have they gone days without water?) OR I had a hard time feeling like I was there. I felt nothing during the charge of the Terrors. Should have been more vividly described.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fuzz — Sun, 08 Jan 2012 19:06:18 -0600

Thank you. I'll bear that in mind :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kane Caston — Tue, 24 Apr 2012 18:06:35 -0500

[quote=J_S_C] Title: Ex and Why We all sit in a circle looking at each other. We are women that have the same affliction. My butt feels like it wants to fall asleep sitting on the hard chair, and I move around a lot to keep the pins and needles feeling at bay. Jenny stands in front of her chair. She is one of the young ones that probably just learned why she hadn’t had her period. I look at her and picture a normal girl whose whole world went topsy-turvy at a few words from a doctor in an examination room. “I don’t know what I should feel,” she says to all of us. We’ve all been there. We’ve all had these feelings of confusion. “I don’t know if I should tell my boyfriend or if I should just keep going like nothing’s wrong.” There are two views of thought on this subject in the group. I’m in the group that tells her to tell him. It’s the right thing to do. If he dumps her, then he’s a jerk, and she’ll be better off with somebody else. If he stays with her, then she better hold onto him because he’s a good guy, and they deserve to be held on to. Others tell her to keep it secret because it doesn’t matter in the long run. She’s a girl, and the fact that she has androgen insensitivity doesn’t change the fact that she’s a girl. Telling him would just bring her syndrome to the forefront. “Isn’t that the point?” Mary says. “It’s that difference that you have to accept, and pretending that it isn’t there isn’t the right way. Embrace it, and the things that come with it.” “Tell him or don’t tell him,” Jean says. “He’s going to dump her either way. She’s what: sixteen, seventeen?” I look at Jenny, and I can see her eyes start to get all doe-eyed and watery. Another harsh word and she won’t be able to keep those tears at bay. I stand up and scowl at Jean. Jenny takes my hand as I lead her to the back of the room. “Don’t listen to that,” I tell her. “She’s right though, isn’t she?” I sigh deeply. “You’re young still. You’ve had a lot thrown at you so soon, but yes, and it’s not because of this.” “Why?” “It’s just the way things are.” “Is there anything good about this?” “Oh, there’s a lot that’s good,” I tell her. I brush a strand of hair out of her face. “You’ll never grow hair under your arms, and you’ll never have to shave down here to look sexy. You’ll have a great set of tits when you are done growing.” I look at her, and she already does have a great set. “You won’t stink, and will save a lot on deodorant, and you’ll never have to buy tampax or tampons because you’ll never have a period.” These were the things I was told when I started coming and didn’t know heads or tails of any of it. “I can’t ever have a baby,” she started crying. I hug her. This is the real problem. It’s not that she’s worried about her boyfriend. No, this one spent most of her childhood thinking about the babies she would have when she got older. In an instant that’s ripped away from her. I understand it. I sympathize with it. I’ve gone through the same thing, only I suffered after I realized the implications of not having reproductive organs. I never thought much about children as a girl. “That’s the bad thing about it,” I tell her. “But, you get over it. You do.” I lied, but I hope it comforted her. After she stopped sobbing, we went back to the circle. Jenny didn’t talk the rest of the meeting. I rarely ever talked. I came to offer support to those that needed it. This wasn’t the group I needed. I met those women next week for their monthly meeting. --JSC [/quote] Writing A Cohesiveness A- a little direct telling at the start didn't seem to fit. Plot... I don't think many males like myself would read about why a woman didn't get her period. It's a A class subject plot. Just not for me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Steampunk avi8or — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 20:01:07 -0600

@ skymessenger It's cool how the opening throws you right into the action. My advice for you is desribe things. Remember how it felt to fall on the hard ground when you were a little kid (or two days ago in my case)? Also what do the dragons look like? 'Everything happened in slow motion.' may be how you imagined it, but I think that's a little cliche, sorry. You could imply that time moves more slowly to Sora. Also I don't know whether this is a medieval villiage or modern times, so it would be helpful to describe the street, just a little, like, 'I felt the cobblestones beneath my shoes'. But I won't write your story for you., and you don't need it to be written for you. You have some great stuff here. Rima is so considerate, and I love the line 'be the strong girl I know you are'. Mechanics hobby? Goggles? Is this steampunk fantasy? (she asked hopefully and excitedly). There is some technical stuff, mostly capitalization of i's. Good luck, I'm giving you a B-. :) *goes to read your synopsis*

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Steampunk avi8or — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 19:41:57 -0600

@ cursive This feels like real life. It really does. Great opening, I love the description of Justin. There was one part that confused me: figure dovetailed like a mortise to a tenon. I don't think most people know what that is. I don't :D. But yeah, this fast-forwarded Justin's life effortlessly from a little kid to a college graduate beautifully and with just enough detail. The one comment I have is to decribe the other characters a bit more. I have no clue what Curtis looks like. This seems like a great premise, and I would buy this book despite realistic fiction not usually being my thing. As I said before, this actually feels like I'm living the story. You get an A.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

bluebeanie41496 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 13:23:25 -0600

Thank you thank you for this :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 18:19:46 -0600

@ Steampunk avi8or Though genre fiction isn't my thing, I'm liable to become a rabid follower, if the rest of Steampunk is as good as your first chapter.You have a light, deft touch which makes the even potentially overwrought--descriptions of the father's invention and the streets of 19th century Boston--a joy to read. I could go on, but as I'm loathe to indulge in hyperboles (I really can't say enough about the wit and charm of your writing) let me make one objection: Shouldn't Beatrix have a better job on account of her father's status? Or was being a professor and an inventor in the 19th century no more prestigious than being, say, a starving artist? In any event, having Beatrix be a humble lady-in-waiting is a savvy move. (Nothing like an underdog to root for!)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

kaylainwonderland — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 18:37:24 -0600

I read the excerpt and have mixed feelings about it. I enjoyed what I read, but as a reader I felt a bit lost. From what I gathered it was in ancient greece and he was planning on time traveling. If you explain in more later I think it could be a good story, but it was too much at once and a bit confusing because of that. The writing itself and characters seem interesting enough though. I say a B-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

tinkerbinker — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 23:18:17 -0600

Thank you! That was better then I was expecting, honestly. It does get explained more as the chapter progresses, and on the next edit I'll slow the pace down.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 15:34:23 -0600

1. Critique: Nothing really stands out as wrong. I liked how you found things out as Katherine did... I think that's what made me carrying on reading. The actual language of how it's wrote was easy going and easy to read, easy to follow what was going on in the scene. Generally I think well written and some what I can tell lighthearted fun reading. 2. Genre and age group: I'd say fantasy and young adult. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'd probably not buy it because although it was easy to read and kept me interested, it's not my kind of thing, so maybe to say I'd read it if someone gave me it to me. 4. Score: B

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 19:39:48 -0600

Critique: I understand that you are trying to give the reader the back story and character information as quickly as possible so you can get to the actual story, but it's not a good technique. You unload all of this information in one chapter, when it really should be revealed throughout the book, depending on when it has actual relevance and importance to the current situation. In addition, you spend so much time on completely unnecessary details, like the character's favorite music genres. I quickly lost interest. I don't watch music talk shows even when bands I love are on, I'm not going to read about one discussing a band that I neither care about nor can listen to. Learning about their inspiration and favorite music will not make me care. You also do much more telling than showing. Again, these character traits should be revealed throughout the book, from how they act and talk. I read another post you made before saying that you planned on making the replacement band The Wires, so it would cause drama. If you really want to have this scene, I suggest just cutting to that part when Lilli realizes they are present. However, due to the extreme amount of exposition and background information, it is clear you have developed a back story, with many characters and personal problems, which is good, and sounds interesting. I just think your way of explaining it to the reader needs adjustment, as right now it is simply an overwhelming info dump that one can quickly lose interest in. Throw in some more action and plot events. 2. Genre and age group: I'm bad at this...eh... comedy/something else (romance maybe) 3. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve it 4. Score: D+ or C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 15:38:01 -0600

I'm sorry, I really do not have time to write a full review (maybe I can do it tomorrow or later tonight) because I have homework, but I'll quickly jot down the things that bothered me. One thing I did notice that bugged me was you at first called Lilli's brother Elm, and then you suddenly begin calling him Tony. I know it is explained that Elm is his middle name or something like that, but this can still be confusing. Choose to call him one name or the other. Also, make the transitions to first person a little clearer, or simply stick with third person. Again, it can be confusing. I also need to say that you need to work a bit on your comma use and sentence structure. "Her gaze full of emotions, and then quickly turned her attention to untying the chord of his shorts, her hands shaking so much, that they became tangled and knotted in the cord." This sentence is a little awkward. I'd cut it into multiple sentences. One last thing before I go is that when you write the number 8 when you're talking about Johnny Depp, spell it out instead. I may be back later to add more feedback unless somebody already does it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 20:19:30 -0600

OK, I've broken the sentence up more. Checked my numbers, for what should be written and not. As for the 1st person POV, I thought that was quite clear with it being in italics and obviously from a 1st person POV. As for the Elm/Tony thing... Elm is more like for when he's doing band stuff... but again I thought it was pretty clear, that he is who he is, Lilli's brother... I don't think there's much room for thinking he's like someone else. But please give me more feedback, if you have time :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 20:59:05 -0600

Well, what I meant with the first person transition thing was just make it clear whose POV it is from the beginning. I thought it was clear for Lilli's, but I didn't get it immediately when it went to Elm's POV. That was probably the thing that bothered me least though. And I stand by my point about the Tony/Elm thing. I knew they were the same person, but I know some other people may be confused for at least a little bit. You really cannot alternate the names back and forth outside of dialogue. Writing it like that makes it seem like the narrator is referring to two different people. Whatever name is called most by people that know him best, that is how you, the narrator, should refer to him. Again, as I said in an earlier post, you seem to be using the entire interview scene as a sort of information dump for the characters. It's quite obvious because it in no way advances the plot or changes anything in the characters' lives. If you REALLY want this scene, cut it down and add some action (more showing than telling). It doesn't have to be anything catastrophic. As long as it adds to the plot line a little. I truly believe books are best when the back story and character information is strewn throughout the book when needed, rather than thrown all in one little section. Too much information can become overwhelming and, frankly, quite dull. I fought the urge to skim through it multiple times. It doesn't help that much of your information is quite unnecessary, such as the "what actor/actress would play them," and other things like that. So far, I don't know the characters at all. Therefore, I don't care about this little tidbit in any shape or form. The parts with the contest, their age, their band influences, CUT IT OUT. It's unnecessary and boring. Reading about interviews is really just not that enjoyable. Rather than blatantly saying it, show it through the character's more important discussions, their clothing, their actions, etc. I suggest jumping to much more dramatic or significant scene. The second chapter, though it needs definite improvement, is better and more interesting than the first. I don't know if I would make it the first chapter, but you could probably get away with it if you threw in a little back story there (emphasis on "little"). I am aware of your story's plot twist, for I saw another post you made. However, I found that I ended up guessing it before I even looked at your post when i read the thing about the album cover (jokingly though). Having the girl pose topless with her brother behind her, and implying that he ripped off her dress is not only "risque," it's a little creepy. I know it was only for an album, but if this was a real sister/brother band, it would weird me the hell out. I immediately thought that these siblings were a closer than most. I'm just saying this because when I found out my suspicions were correct, I was not too surprised by the plot twist. Just a warning. Also, with the second chapter, I know you intended for the guy to be unnamed. However, because he is unnamed (but is clearly important, nonetheless), I'd add some...emphasis to his appearance... (eh, I don't know how to explain this...). When Lilli first sees him show up, just add a line there showing how important it is that he appeared, or you could simply italicize he when he first appears. Did you understand that, because I don't even know if I did... That's all I can think of for now. If I find anything else, I'll notify you.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 09:19:34 -0600

OK, I shall re edit the interview scene. Actually the purpose of the scene was to show how famous Lilli was, that she's be on a daytime TV show etc. The actor/actress thing was to show the reader what they(or what the characters think) look like. The cover, is meant to be he's attacked her, and it's meant to be in that old horror movie style. You can actually see on my avatar what's going on. Also if you think it's creepy with the cover... then I'm not sure what you'd think of the rest of the book. I'm not sure what you mean about the second chapter, his appearance, do you mean his physical appearance?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 15:15:22 -0600

http://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1128563-Dump-the-Information-Dump Look at this. Even if you didn't intend to make an exposition dump, you are still doing it with the first chapter. You could show how famous Lilli is in one or two sentences: "People were still talking about the interview yesterday." That's it (but better than this poor example, of course). I keep reiterating this point because it is truly the poison of your piece right now. I don't know how often I have to say this, but I don't care about the interview at all. Most of those little facts were boring and unnecessary, or could be presented in a much more interesting way. Just cut it. It advances the plot in no way. Again, l personally inferred elm and lilli's relationship as having incestuous undertones by the album before I even truly knew the plot twist. I know the album was going for that certain type of style, and you can still do that style, but I just know a lot of people would be weirded out by a this sort of album cover. Even though they are playing parts, the girl is still posing near topless in front of her brother, and his persona is the one that made her topless. My friend was here with me when I first read it, and she agreed with me that it's kind of creepy, and a sign that they are possibly in a relationship. The plot twist isn't as surprising as you think it might be. As for the appearance thing, please ignore that. I don't know how to explain what I was trying to say, and it is really not that important.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 14:43:10 -0600

Reading it again, I do realize that it is fairly clear. However, the transition from the present to this flashback is rather jarring and a little too out of nowhere. The transition needs to flow better.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:27:10 -0600

New version more or less of chapter one. “Lils...” Tony pointed out of the car window “service station... one mile” he added as another twang of hunger rippled through his stomach. “What should I just drive over this queue of traffic, so you can eat” Lilli quibbled at her brother, with her hands rested against the stirring wheel. The news on the radio indicated it was 6am and the early morning sun was shinning. “You said you wanted to drive down” her brother reminded her as he turned his attention back to his graphic novel, slipping a lock of long brown hair behind his ear. “Yeah I did, I didn't think we'd get stuck in traffic... I thought it would be a nice peaceful easy drive... but no, they decide to put diversions on” his sister moaned before pulling her hair back into a ponytail then let in fall out of her hands and over her shoulders. Lilli sighed and turned up the radio. I go ooh ooh, you go ah ah, lalalalalalalala... “We could just stop and grab something, use the toilet” Lilli quickly interrupted her brother. “El, do you need to pee?” Lilli asked in a harsh tone with a matching frown on her face “honestly it's like being with a child...” she muttered under her breath. “No”Tony replied quietly. “Then we don't need to stop, do we... we have to be there ready. In front of the camera's at nine o'clock” she sighed and pushed her feet down on the pedal, to move only inches forward. Don't even talk about the consequence, Cause right now you're the only thing that's making any sense to me, And I don't give a damn what they say, what they think think, Cause you're the only one who's on my mind, I'll never ever let you leave me... “You love me really” Tony glanced from his page with a smile “your just in a mood because you hate driving but wont admit it” Tony commented discreetly eyeing his sister's reaction as she tapped her hands to the music with a scowl. Don't even think about what's right or wrong, wrong or right, 'Cause in the end it's only you and me and no one else is gonna be around... “Only because I have too” Lilli suddenly turned and smiled at him “we're still not stopping for breakfast” she confirmed with a laugh. “Oh Lillian...” her brother huffed. “Oh Elm...” Lilli whined at back him mockingly. “I've been up since four” Tony moaned. I feel so untouched, And I want you so much, That I just can't resist you.. “And I have” Lilli momentarily leaned over into the back of the car and rummaged inside her handbag. She pulled out a Yorkie Chocolate Bar, opened the wrapper and bite into the chocolate. Tony looked at her in a stunned silence. “It's a biscuit and raisin one as well, you cow” Tony narrowed his eyes as Lilli took another bite “Right, as soon as we're live on air, everyone's going to know how nasty you are” he huffed “not even offering your little brother a piece of chocolate” he paused “everyone thinks Lilli Morgan is so sweet and nice, to adoring all her fans. Ha!” Tony continued with mocking smugness. “If I give you the other half, will you shut up” Lilli sighed “moaning on, and on?” she asked as her brother nodded. She handed him her half eaten chocolate bar. Untouched, untouched, untouched, untouched, untouched, Alalalala alalalala... Lilli sat alone in the green room of the TV studio, waiting to go back on air after the bands performance on the daily talk show more than an hour before. She still wore her lilac flimsy dress with black trim and dabbed at her nose with a tissue, as a cold had been going around the band. Tony had gone with the rest of the band for some fresh air, before he returned to his sister for their brief interview. Whilst the rest of the band went to look round the city whilst. Lilli's mobile flashed blue and vibrated indicating her mum was phoning her. She glanced at the time displayed of 10.15am then let it go to a missed call knowing she’d be called through at any moment to the make-up and wardrobe department so she could change before the interview. Lilli sat whilst the hairstylist combed at her hair in the wardrobe department. Staring at her nervous reflection, Lilli continued to worry about the live interviews, she thought she’d say something she wasn't meant too. "Joining us now are Lilli and Elm Morgan" the short grey haired host said as The Munsters theme tune played and he gestured to Lilli and her brother, they made their way over to sit in the sofa across from him. "Morning" she said with a laugh gesturing around her at the music as her brother tried to smother a heavy cough. The host was surpised at how softly spoken and delicate Lilli's voice was compared to her singing voice. Her dark elbow length hair was now neatly tied back into a ponytail that trailed down her back over a fitted black t-shirt that depicted Lily and Herman Munster with The Munsters written in lilac above them. Lilli crossed her black jeaned legs once she'd sat down. Her brother who more flopped onto the sofa and casually smiled at the camera wore black jeans along with a dark grey shirt over a lilac t-shirt but kept his equally as long hair down. “Now, Lilli you left The Wires just over 2 years ago” the host began as Lilli nodded that he was correct. “Have things calmed down now?” he asked. “Yeah things went a little crazy as people will know” Lilli laughed “obviously it wasn't the best way to leave a band but everything is more settled now, and I have my 'own' band now” she added, gesturing quotation marks at the use of the word own. "So do have any feelings about The Wires now?" he asked returning to the infamous subject whilst glancing at his sheet of questions. "Well, you know I became their singer really because of my brother” Lilli tapped her brothers on the knee “of course at the time I was hurt by what was going on in the band to me, and also afterwards by the stuff Adam said... but then I look back now and I don't really feel anything" she explained to the host, and then took another sip of water. "Really your brother?" the host questioned further. "Yeah, I was friends with Adam since we were about 11 or 12” Lilli nodded in agreement with her little brother “then when we were about 19” he made a so/so gesture with her left hand “he started the band and they wanted a singer" he added as Lilli raised an eyebrow and pointed to herself. "Big sister came to the rescue?" the host offered with a laugh. "Something like that" Lilli shrugged "they were never looking for a guitar player at the time" Lilli smiled “it wasn’t until later with my band that Elm was obviously the perfect choice” Lilli gave her brother a coy smile. “Am I right in thinking you have no management?” the host asked. “Yes you are, we don’t have a manager. Of course we have a label but decisions are made between us and then press releases and things like, well this" Lilli gestured around her with her hands "are sorted by Rafael our PR and general partner in crime” she explained with smile. "Here's a photo of the band” the host said and turned to the big screen showing an image of Lilli standing between Elm and Sarah, Dave and Stuart behind them. The make-up team buzzed around Lilli in the break, she'd already done her own make-up before the show, but they insisted she needed more applying. “Welcome back” the host smiled “here we are with Lilli and Elm from Lilli And The Munsters” he gestured to the siblings who waved slightly. “So, a winner to our little contest before the break, has been chosen” he confirmed then went to the phone lines. After the interview was over Lilli and Elm were shown back to the green room and informed, that someone would come to get them when it was time for the 'cooking' segment of the show. Lilli picked up a magazine that was on the table in front of her and began flicking through the pages. Whilst her brother sat at her side, longing for the 'cooking' segment of show to hurry up. I was sat third row back into the audience, on my own, mum and dad 'didn't do' the particular show and Phil, working the day after so couldn't get back down from Glasgow in time. At this point I'd not seen Lilli in about six months, although I'd been getting my weekly emails from her. I'd just dressed simple, smart dark blue jeans and a black shirt, I was only an audience member. Lilli wore her normal stage clothes, of black leather trousers and a vest top with black patent heels.... oh and her hair taken back into a princess style. She looked like she should have fronted a heavy metal band, even then The Wires were far from that, they only just scraped being classed as rock. The Wires had just finished their performance when the host walked over. He did the whole thing talking to Adam, whilst Lilli, Alex and Mark stood by his side. Everything seemed to be fine as the host turned to the camera and started to explain about tour dates until all that could be heard was Lilli and although what happened next was in a matter of a couple of minutes it seemed like hours. “Get your fucking hand off my arse” Lilli suddenly shouted out and jumped forward from between Adam and Alex “would you do that to Alex or Mark? NO!” she continued to yell now facing Adam, all the audience had fallen into a deadly silence and everyone including me watched on in a state of shock. “I'm sick of it, your little remarks” she added “I've had enough, you can fuck off, just fuck off and leave me alone” Lilli screamed at Adam whilst the host nervously looked at them both as the scene in front of him unfolded “I don't want anything to do with you or your fucking band, I quit!” she added in a her tone between a firm huff and an exasperated shriek. Then Lilli fell silent and gazed around, momentarily glancing behind her at the audience, cameramen and then finally her eyes met mine, before she ran off the set. “I'm her brother, please just let me through” I continued explained to the security guy who guarded the door to backstage. “No pass, no entry” he stated and eyed me. “Oh come on, just let me through” I argued, tucking my shoulder length hair behind my ears with a sigh. “Do you have a pass?” he asked with a sarcastic tone. “No, you know I don't” I huffed back at him, he was starting to really piss me off now. “Then no” the security guy said and continued to stare at me “I'll see if Ms Morgan wants to see you” he added noting the look on my face. “Thank you...” I offered in an equally sarcastic tone to how he'd spoke to me before he disappeared through the door. I checked my mobile again, no messages nor calls. I pushed the buttons to call Lilli... straight to voice mail, I didn't leave a message.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Fri, 20 Jan 2012 20:40:32 -0600

It's annoying that you can't just edit your posts on here. :( I forgot to say before that, although it's a plot twist... there are things through the story that might make you think that before it's confirmed, about Lilli and Elm's relationship... it's just meant to be a surprise if you haven't picked up on it, or maybe that the reader might think it and then go 'ah, I thought so' when it's revealed. If that makes sense ;)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

YunaTH — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 03:58:51 -0600

There were some grammar issues. Lilli questioned him, as Tony [ LEANED] against the door frame.... I think one of the major common issues is that you don't properly punctuate your dialogue. "Come on" should be "Come on,". There should be a comma: ... of the original[,]” her brother explained. “It's the cover song on our album, you should know it[,]” his sister muttered[.] “[Y]ou better not lose the key[.]” There were also some capitalization, or lack of capitalization, issues: “DAVID!” Tony hissed at him whilst he tried to grab at his arms[.] “[I]t's not a body... leave it, leave it[.]” Other than that, the story was well paced and didn't have a dull moment. Dialogue seemed to come naturally and wasn't stiff.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

adora1983 — Sat, 21 Jan 2012 13:40:45 -0600

Thanks I'll take a look at the grammer :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 19:02:25 -0600

Critique: I'll start by saying I'm not a huge fan of present tense, but you do a reasonable job with it here. I like the relationship you've drawn between the brother and sister, and I like how you've presented Kat's life. I get a sense of who she is, and where she is and is not comfortable with the life she is leading. I think you've made a good start to the character. I also think your'e doing some of what Storyteller:) was doing below: too much exposition too soon. This reads as if you are trying to communicate your entire backstory right here in chapter 1, while we're still forming our opinions of Kat and getting a feel for her environment. I tend to enjoy character and setting in a story; if it takes you 300 pages to give me the full backstory, that's fine - if I'm hooked on the characters. At the very beginning, I don't want Kat's life story. I just want to hang out with her for a while. One last tiny thing, which is entirely my personal preference: Exclamation points should only be used in dialogue, and even then only if someone is actually yelling. :-) Genre: YA fantasy (based on my guess that Kat is somewhere between 14 and 18 years old) Shelve it or buy it: With some revisions, I might pick it up - it's a genre I often enjoy. Grade: 70/100 right now, with potential. You have some good character bits here. With more focus on those and less on filling in details I don't yet care about, this could work really well.

Re: Excerpt from my first Chapter.. A Unified Entity

lizmonster — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 18:47:20 -0600

Critique: This is one of the better "by-they-way-they're-not-human" introductions I've read. You've managed to provide a vivid description of an alien species without making them so different that I lose interest. Having said that - this feels very rushed, almost like a summary or a sketch. You have a lot of information here, and I'd like to see some of it fleshed out a little more. Every paragraph here includes a lot of information - I think you could mete it out in a bit more detail, perhaps keeping us in Mantid's head, showing us this alien species through his observations. Genre/age group: Science fiction, probably adult Shelve it or buy it: I'd definitely want to keep reading. Grade: I'm going to say 75-80/100. It's an interesting start, but I think it needs a little more breathing room.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Sat, 28 Jan 2012 18:31:38 -0600

Critique: I found this an interesting beginning. You have done a good job of both sketching out your character, and giving me a little of the flavor of the universe you're developing. I did, however, find your prose a bit dense and hard to push through in places. I think there are two reasons for this: first of all, in many places you are both explaining what the character is feeling, and then describing a behavior that demonstrates the same thing. For example: "She turned away from the window in disgust at the situation, as she could not tolerate any more of it." I think you could lose "in disgust at the situation" without losing the meaning of the sentence, and it would tighten up the paragraph. Additionally, while some of your analogies are lovely, I think you're overusing them here. The sunshine = freedom analogy is apt, but it's repeated too often - I would pare that back a bit, and trust your reader to pick it up. Secondly, I think there is a little too much of the "telling instead of showing" problem (one I struggle with myself!). For example, you mention Elisabeta's parents almost as an afterthought because you need us to know she has them, but at this stage it feels forced. At the end you have Elisabeta grumble about her mother to her reflection. I don't think it's necessary to spell out all of the details at this point - part of why we are reading is to learn about Elisabeta. It's her actions that need to keep us curious. I'd leave out the entire muttering-to-herself bit int he last paragraph, for instance; you've already made it clear that she is resentful toward her mother, and apprehensive about seeing her. Elisabeta's grumble is redundant here. Genre and age group: Difficult to tell without knowing Elisabeta's age. Fantasy, possibly YA; but based on this could also be historical romance. Shelve it or buy it: I can never make a choice like that on such a short segment. :-) I would probably look at it more closely at a bookstore; you have made me curious about what happens next. Grade: As-is, I'd give it about 70/100. It has a first-draft vibe, but I think you have a good skeleton here and a lot to build on.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Openhome — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 21:06:08 -0600

Critique: I need to preface this by saying that I honestly want to help you improve your writing. I'm afraid this may be rather harsh, and I don't want you to think I'm attacking you in any way. I just want to help you create a solid manuscript that grabs your reader and holds them. First: This had no draw for me. None. I can't even tell what the story is about other than two rather dim witted young women. I can't relate to your characters, have no idea of what they are talking about and have no reason to stay with your book. As written, I'd shelve it in a heart beat. If you visit any of the writing sites available on the web, one of the first things you'll find is that your story needs to grab a reader within the first chapter, preferably within the first 500 words. I can't tell what's happening in the first 500 words. I can't even tell what genre it is. More importantly, and much more basic, your grammar is incorrect and rather simple. The conversation left me completely confused. I'm sorry. I know that's terribly hard to read and I can tell you've put a tremendous amount of time into your work, but it simply isn't ready for publication. Genre: unknown Age range: Maybe YA Grade: F

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 20:17:25 -0600

I disagree with the previous poster. The characters whom you present are interesting, far from dim-witted (at least in this passage--they could be in the rest of the story for all I know), and human. The dialogue was natural (that is realistic) and followable. Moreover, grammatically, this is a pretty sound piece--even if the sentence structure isn't particularly complex. Which isn't necessary. Hemingway did just fine with his short (if easily parodied) sentences. Genre: Realistic Fiction Age Range: Adult Shelve or Read: Why not? I'd be willing to read further Grade: A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 20:48:57 -0600

I don't know. I agree with the first poster that it lacks both a hook and an apparent plot, and those are pretty important things. I have absolutely no idea what this book is about. I cannot even try to guess what genre of book it is. I do think the dialogue sounds natural, which is good and something I know people often have trouble with, but leads no where for me, and I really don't understand or care what they are talking about. The majority of it seems unimportant to the story. What is happening here? By this point, I'd put the book down, since nothing significant has happened, nor does it seem that it is even going to lead into something significant. Maybe add a more engaging opening sentence, and outline your first chapter to see if you can fit an interesting event in it. It doesn't have to be anything catastrophic, but just so that it pushes the story forward, because right now I am just seeing a random conversation between two random girls discussing how a phone went into the toilet. Grab the reader's attention by jumping into the plot and action a bit more early on (in medias res I know seems to be very popular today). Genre: Don't have a clue. Realistic Fiction is the obvious guess, but... Age Group: YA to Adult Grade: D

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kimberly Dawn — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 11:06:06 -0600

[quote=nijusjaanu] Arg. let's try this again (in the right thread). I've reworked the first chapter of The Silent Treatment (a nano novel from a few years ago I'm about to publish on Smashwords), and would like your opinion on how it works. Some have complained that it wasn't engaging enough. Here are the first 500 words: Chapter 1 Bridget skipped their usual exit on I-40 and headed toward the mall. Kat furrowed her brow ~~and the grouchy inner six-year-old within her weary twenty-five-year-old body stirred.~~ clunky. The reader in me stops here."I thought we were going home." The tag got muddled "I wanna check the hours of the store." Not sure who is talking. This also doesn't have a particular character voice attached. "Everything opens at ten." "I want the closing." She rolled through an empty strip mall parking lot to the Verizon storefront, squinted at the tiny sign on the door, and accelerated away with the information.Muddled sentence. "Are you gonna get a new phone or see if they can fix yours?" Bridget winced. "I'll probably catch a disease if I use this one." "What happened in the ladies room?" Kat asked, closing her eyes. "I never got the chance to ask you." "I dropped my cell in the toilet." Giddy, sleepy laughter erupted from Kat. "Right as it happened, I screamed, 'Oh shit!' and this chick at the sink just ran out. I could've been having an aneurysm." Bridget nudged the stereo volume down, opting not to combat the stress of work with her usual show-tune singalong.Not a word. Poor sentence structure. "I think I scared her." "Why do you talk in the stall anyway?" Kat asked. "I hate being on the other end of that conversation." "Because our bitch manager doesn't care we're human beings who need to make personal calls." She paused. "How you holding up?"Talking heads without a problem by this point. There isn't a central conflict driving the conversation. "The vampire shift sucks like you said it would," Kat said and laughed at her own pun, but quickly sobered. "This isn't what I wanted," she said. "Nobody wants to work in a pest control call center." In lieu of returning to the highway for the rest of their short trip, she snaked through a residential area of nearly identical houses. Kat closed her eyes again to alleviate the fatigue headache spreading across her face. "I didn't like Philly, but I always thought we'd move to New York. Not back here." "You promised not to talk about this when you're tired. You'll cry or do something you'll regret. And stop saying we." Kat squeezed her upper arm. Without visual aid, the last green and yellow bruise might never have existed. "Besides," Bridget added, "Memphis is a hole. My brother moved back. That chick from the theater class we took together moved back. I need to call her—" She clicked her tongue. "Damn it. I hope those jackasses get my numbers out. I don't have anything backed up." She huffed. "Who uses paper when you've got an awesome phone?" "Even paper gets ruined in a toilet." Parked cars choked both sides of the road around a corner, and Kat whistled. "Someone had a good party last night." "Oh hey, here's an open spot." Kat straightened as Bridget parallel parked. "I want to sleep." "It's an estate sale, not a party. After our shitty night, we could use some affordable retail therapy." She shut off the engine. "We might find something for your sad, empty apartment." ... [/quote] 1. I agree with Openhome. Your sentence structure is clunky, you don't know how to do a properly related list, your grammar is all over the place, and I can't see a conflict coming. The best I get is talking heads without a reason why they are talking. Dialogue serves the purpose of illustrating about who the characters are, but also moves the events/scene forward. There is no conflict so there is no reason for them to speak, which means the dialogue suffers for it. The characters need to *want* something and that want is communicated through the dialogue. 2. Genre? No idea until you have a conflict. 3. Age Range: No idea. You say she's 23, but then the writing style doesn't match. 4. Buy it? No. The grammar weighs it down. Also with a lack of conflict, unclear characters, muddled sentences and setting, I can't even get the beginning of what the plot may be. 5. Grade: D- (Because I've seen worse). Suggestion: Write down: My conflict for this scene is... Start with that front and center and get the characters and setting to work with it. Also long sentences don't make you smart, it makes you look like you're trying to be smart by packing in things that shouldn't be there.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:25:40 -0600

@ nijusjaanu I wouldn't worry about the "wasn't engaging enough" complaints. What do they want? Shakespearan melodrama? On its own terms--understated bitter tenderness--the piece works perfectly. I wouldn't change a thing.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 09:34:48 -0600

I think this is an improvement - it's more emotionally engaging, and still interesting. It's still feeling a little rushed to me, but you've got me hooked - which is the whole point, of course! I like the universe, though; I think you can take your time, and you'll still keep me reading. I don't know if you have the whole story finished yet - sometimes I find it easier to retool my introduction once I've got the rest of the story in place (I know better what I do and don't want/need to tell the reader at this point). I like what you're sketching out here, but I still want more "fill" to it. I know that's an awfully fuzzy critique, especially given that I don't know what happens next - sometimes context is everything. (I should note I tend to meander a bit in my own writing, so I may be reacting to a stylistic difference as well.)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kimberly Dawn — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 09:56:31 -0600

1. Seems rushed to me. It skips very fast and I don't get enough time to get a sense of the character. The first one is a fail when you put "5 minutes..." that's a. lazy writing b. You'll never get away with it. c. something that writers who are in experienced do. Take time to build up the tension. Make her notice things as she gets home that makes her anxiety rise. Your objective here is to make the reader feel the same thing she feels. The second one is closer to what you need, but still bring up things that make her worry or seem anxious. (Don't monologue, but make her see things that do make her think more.) In the choices of what makes her worry, choose carefully as this is a good opportunity for the character to be illustrated. Especially if she views certain objects outside of the norm of how others see them. 2. Genre? Women's fiction/General fiction. 3. Age group, Young Adult to adult--I'm unclear about her age. 4. Buy it? Skim ahead. It's a pretty common premise and I don't smell a twist in the works. =P If she was pushing 70, that would pique my interest. 5. Grade? C+ If you clean up the other stuff, such as the pacing take time to do the characterization, etc, then Probably B+. I need more than she's pregnant to continue.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 14:15:50 -0600

I definitely like B over A, but I think this needs a bit more meat to it. Obviously, not endless amounts of exposition or how the sky looks that day or a flashback or anything, but just a bit more details and tension. Everything was so rushed that I didn't have time to process what was happening. Giving time will allow both her anxiety and the reader's anxiety to escalate. In addition, I know very little. I don't know how old she is or what her room is like or what her family is like or what she is even like. I don't even know her first name. There was really no personality in it, so I got very little of her character. You could just add little comments about "What was school like today, Honey?" to mention her age more, or say she shoved her soccer ball (I don't know...) out of the way to get to the bathroom, signifying that she is a soccer player. I know you are trying to convey that she is nervous, but you should also include a few things she is feeling rather than explaining it to the reader. Write about an nervous stomach, an overwhelmed mind, how things suddenly look different to her, anything like that. I am also not a huge fan of the "five minutes later" thing. Also, if you do something similar that you did in A with her telling your parents, I'm going to tell you now that any smart girl would check at least a couple more times to see if she's actually pregnant, because those things are wrong all of the time. If you want to get to her telling her parents quickly, then you could say briefly that this is her second or third pregnancy test. Genre: Young Adult Fiction Buy: I might buy if you add more characterization to it. I've read a teen pregnancy book before, so it wouldn't be anything that new to me unless you're planning on doing something really different. Age: Teens Grade: Eh... I'm lingering between C+ and B-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Sunnysideup — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 09:33:56 -0600

To tell you the truth, I was a bit confused through the entire beginning/prologue. I wasn't too sure what was happening or why she was interacting with certain seemingly insignificant characters, for instance the fat guy. I also wasn't very sure of the setting at any given time. Where exactly was she when this was happening? What is the significance of the scar, of the scorpion? A prologue is supposed to give insight into what's going to happen or has already happened in the story, but I suppose your intent was to create a sort of mystery to keep the readers wanting more. I do believe this has potential. I did genuinely want to understand the Scorpion mark and what it's significance was. I did get that the character had been stung perhaps? Genre: Detective (young adult fiction) perhaps? Buy By just having read the prologue? Probably not. Age Teens Grade C needs a bit more substance. Perhaps drop the prologue and start at chapter 1.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 14:17:38 -0600

@ Bent Letters Let me start off by saying how well you write. The sentences are terse, rythmic, and vigorous; and the word choices are, as far as I could tell, flawless. I did get a little confused as the story progressed to its denoument, but that was my fault. Either I was too hasty in reading it or I was too obtuse to see how clever the story's construction was. (A quick reread rectified all.) My favorite bits are the "wire bench's ornate black side rail" and Nikki's blase dismissal of the fat guy ("No matter, she didn't have time to waste looking at him" LOL). In keeping with the thread's theme, I would classify your story as a cross between mainstream and literary fiction; I would buy your book; and your grade would be nothing less than an A.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

EmmaMayfield — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 15:17:52 -0600

Thanks! my cousin and I are writing this together, so we really wanted some feedback. :) This will help us a lot.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 22:48:48 -0600

I think it's got a hook--two actually: the bruises and the general air of dissatisfaction, which is at work beneath this entire random conversation. These, subtle as they are, suggest conflict. But without knowing the genre, which, as you've suggested, is difficult to pin down from this excerpt alone, we can really only speculate as to whether such subtleties are appropriate. For lit fic or realistic fic, probably okay--assuming the conflict moved to the foreground soon after. Other genres, probably not.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 23:06:04 -0600

Yeah, I get what you're saying, but the work dissatisfaction doesn't seem to be anything dire, and almost everybody can say they've disliked at least one of their jobs, so it doesn't really pose a new problem distinctive to this story. It's just a common, everyday complaint that a lot of people express.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 20:30:28 -0600

@ Sunnysideup Some elements of a good story are there--the beautiful Alaskan setting and the protagonist's intense love and sorrow for her parents--but I have my doubts that those things in and of themselves will be enough to carry the story far. You'll need your protagonist to transcend her past sorrows and make something of the present and the future. Hopefully, you have something interesting in mind. I like the lyrical lilt of your prose, but you have to be mindful of how you word some of your phrases and sentences. In "thick clouds of fog that brushed up onto shore" and "We parked our boat," the verbs just strike me as wrong. Finally, whether you realize it or not, you employ a lot of stock phrases, familiar word combinations like "snow capped mountains," "peaceful slumber," and "powerful presence." Avoid them, if you can.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 18:49:42 -0600

Oh, my god. Seeing at how polarizing these comments are, I don't think we're being very helpful...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 21:15:30 -0600

Haha congratulations on posting the most controversial prologue or first chapter, nijusjaanu.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kimberly Dawn — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 22:18:18 -0600

I say that it lacks a concrete conflict. That is a specific comment. It would be easier for you to point out what you think the conflict is rather than demeaning the other comments because you don't agree. Also, pointing out if the grammar is correct and not clunky by specific comments. Saying, "Well, they are just all wrong because they gave you a bad grade" or that "they like shakepearean melodrama" doesn't help the writer one bit. Break it down. Grammar was horrible and clunky. Show me it wasn't. As a writer, good or bad I hate the generalized comments. I think the writer can defend their own work on their own if need be. Demeaning other opinions also doesn't help either. Concentrate on the actual work and be specific about it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Sunnysideup — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:00:52 -0600

Thanks for the feedback :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 23:14:57 -0600

[quote=Kimberly Dawn] Also, pointing out if the grammar is correct and not clunky by specific comments. Saying, "Well, they are just all wrong because they gave you a bad grade" or that "they like shakepearean melodrama" doesn't help the writer one bit. Break it down. Grammar was horrible and clunky. Show me it wasn't. [/quote] Please understand that I'm not trying to upset people--especially since the grammar comment seems to be directed at me; if that's the case, I sincerely apologize. But following on that line of grammar, I only ask that you clarify how the grammar was horrible. Clunky and awkward it might be, and with your in-line edits, you cited several places where this is true. But a sentence can be both clunky and awkward and still be grammatically correct. Looking back, I counted two instances where the grammar was incorrect--one was in an early sentence in which the author needed a comma before the coordinating conjunction that separated two independent clauses, and the other was a hyphen that was necessary for clarity. This response is both a request for clarification and a justification for my generalized comment that the grammar was "pretty sound." Please don't take this as an attempt to escalate the situation.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 09:34:07 -0600

What matters isn't how much drama can be squeezed out of two friends driving to confirm a store's hours and then going to an estate's sale, but how seemingly insignificant non-events like them can hold a reader's interest. And to be able to do that is art, and though you can try to explain it matter of factly with empirical data, art doesn't work that way. There are no hard and fast rules on how to create conflict or what decibel level the conflict ought to be. Within the limited scope of nijusjaanu's fictional world, Kat's mysterious bruises and her general unhappiness which Bridget tries to mitigate with a small act of kindness, all of it contrasting with the humor of Bridget's cell phone issues, are conflicts enough. I think many of you are objecting to the limited scope of nijusjaanu's fictional world, not the writing (which is skillful).

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:44:40 -0600

Please disregard the above post. This discussion has grown like a weed, and it's best if we end it before it encumbers this thread any further.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 05:21:05 -0600

blatant bump...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 09:53:02 -0600

I'm not going to go after grammar etc. in a first draft, so I'll just answer your question: Yes, I would like to read on. I like the combination of character and scene here - you've given me both people to care about, and a comprehensible backdrop for a science fiction story. I think you've met your goal. :-) If you want a more detailed critique, I can be more specific about some structural things; but as a first draft? Really, really nice.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 07:05:49 -0600

I am not an experienced writer. My own excerpt is directly above yours awaiting critique! So you may feel free to disregard this. Nevertheless, I think there is some room for improvement here. For example, in the first paragraph you say: "She felt groggy, like she'd been hit on the head. She felt the back of her head, and her hand came away sticky." The repetition of "head" doesn't really work for me, and you miss the chance to tell us something about the character. You could say "She felt groggy, like she'd drank too much whisky", which would tell us the character drinks a lot of scotch and often blacks out. Or you could say "She felt groggy, the world slowly coming into focus before her" which gives us a sense of what the character is experiencing. There's room for lots of this in your first chapter - there's a lot of reported action and speech here but little in the way of scene setting or description. As a result it feels a bit rushed - good in the sense that it reflects the scene, but bad in the sense that you learn very little about the characters and thus are less likely to care about what's happening to them. There are also a couple of things that break the suspension of disbelief. "Snapping" a bone in two takes tremendous force and usually a cantilever - think about trying to break a tree branch. Normally you'd have to break it over your knee, whereas if you just hit it - as your MC does with the butt of a pistol - you'll at most crack it. Secondly, the reaction and way the security guards speak doesn't evoke a highly trained professional, as people assigned to guarding the prime minister. With that in mind, they wouldn't describe him as the "British" prime minister: they are british, in London - to them, what other prime minister is there? There's also a few hanging questions here, which may be deliberate. If they are, then I'd make sure you cover them off before the end of the chapter, unless they are to be recurring themes throughout - otherwise, the reader will forget about them and be left with the impression that you forgot as well. Things like how the MC got past the two guards in the first place - if they were there to stop anyone entering, how did they not see her go in - or is she meant to be there, and they recognise her? Is there no-one else in this building that might hear the struggle and ensuing gunshots? If the guards are there to protect the PM, why were they outside the room instead of inside - security details will usually be allowed in all but the most secret of meetings? It's a good scenario to start with though. I think you have more action in that smal excerpt than some films have in the whole thing. That's a good thing and if you can keep up the pace throughout you'll end up with a very high octane thriller.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 07:06:56 -0600

I meant to say "like she'd drunk too much whisky", of course, rather than "drank".

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Arabola — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 07:27:56 -0600

Thanks very much, you make some good points which I will certainly look to fix. To be honest the writing of the scene was quite rushed, I've thought a lot about the story over the last few months and this was my first real attempt to get it down. So, thanks for helping! I'll try and have a read over your post over the weekend.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 14:28:17 -0600

I'm sorry, but I personally felt that those conflicts were not engaging enough to hold my interest. After all, I hear my mother complain about her job almost every day, and I have never once found that intriguing. Clearly, two other posters agreed with me, so your first sentence is a moot point. Again, we're not saying the poster needs to add a death or an apocalypse. Just something to truly push the storyline further. It can even be about a character's general unhappiness with her work, but this needs to be treated with more emphasis and intrigue, rather than like a casual, everyday problem that everyone has. This is even more important if it is realistic fiction of some sort, because without a new world to build that will capture the reader's attention, you are left with your characters and your conflict to do such a thing. I barely know who the characters are in this, besides that one of them works in a crappy pest control center. They seems to show no neat qualities or distinctions. And the way the bruises were included was almost too brief and casual, so much that I didn't even see it the first time and I skimmed past it. Again, it just wasn't engaging enough for me, because I don't really see an interesting, unique problem that brought up some curiosity in my mind. It just doesn't lead anywhere for me. And I admit, I don't always have the best grammar or structure in the world (such as starting the sentence with "and" as I just did), hence why I didn't include that in my comments, but there are certain flaws in the writing that I noticed. For example, the lack of dialogue tags in the beginning confused me. I had no idea who was speaking or who the characters were really. This is acceptable later in the story when two characters are talking, but as they weren't even truly introduced yet, it came off perplexing. I also have to ask because I just noticed it, what is a "fatigue headache?" Fatigue is either a noun or a verb, not an adjective. This would be like saying "It left me filled with sadness anger." None of us are trying to be mean or huge grammar Nazis here. We're merely attempting to help an avid writer with her work. If it comes across as attacking, I'm sorry, but you need to be harsh sometimes to produce better results. When 3 out of 5 people say they weren't at all caught in the story or even understood what was happening, that's a sign something needs to be fixed.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cursive — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:08:03 -0600

If you don't like the story, you don't like the story. There's no arguing against that. It's a matter of taste. But if you base your dislike of a story on the fact that the story makes you work a little, or on the fact that the story veers away annoyingly from what YOU know to be a good story, then I'd hesitate before panning it wholesale.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:17:02 -0600

I'm not saying it's a bad story. I just think the conflict, whether the bruises or the job dissatisfaction or a looming apocalypse, needs to be presented better

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:21:01 -0600

Let's just agree to disagree, and end discussion. This whole thing has become ridiculous.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:34:52 -0600

Ah, Walk On is right. Though I hate this phrase, I think agreeing to disagree is all we can do now...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:45:28 -0600

Crap. Posted to the wrong place. :P

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Walk On — Fri, 03 Feb 2012 15:47:12 -0600

No, I did. This site is messing with me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Brandinian — Sun, 05 Feb 2012 03:16:49 -0600

1. Okay, so I found your opening to be interesting. I think that right now my biggest problem is that the story is in present tense. It's told like the story is happening as you are writing it. For me, this got to be really distracting and it made it a bit hard to focus. I would suggest changing it to past tense, and it would make the story much more readable. However, I will say that the story had a very strong contemporary edge to it, and I think that the present tense helped to create that vibe. If you choose to stick with the present tense, it needs to be polished up a bit. I noticed a lot of gramatical errors, and a lot of repeated adjectives. You should keep an online thesaurus handy to avoid from repeatedly using the same words over and over. Don't use huge words that aren't going to fit into the tone of your piece, but you can find something else that works for you other than a word you've already used. Sometimes it requires you to be a bit crafty, but I think that you can do it. Right now, the story feels overly colloquial, or informal. Now, a story that is too formal isn't great either, especially with the tone of the piece you are writing, but I think that you need to find a balance between what is the proper way to write a story and how you speak. I think that what you've written can be so much more captivating with just a bit of polish and shine. There were a lot of instances in the story where it felt just too informal. As for the story itself, there is nothing really there that is gripping me yet. I don't have a desire to read on because I've not yet been captivated. I like your main character, but I need a reason to care about what he's doing. However, I will say that your imagery is nice, and I felt like I could accurately imagine the club as I was reading. 2. Genre? Fiction 3. Age group? Young Adult. Though it has some pretty harsh language, which I don't mind at all, the writing is very informal and lends itself to a very late-teenager feel. 4. Buy it? Shelf it. At the moment, I'm not really entirely interested in where the story is going. However, I think that you have an interesting main character and I would like to see something in the first chapter that really grabs me. If that turns out to be the case, then I'd change my answer to Buy It. 5. Grade? C. Like I said, you need to polish it up and give us more of a reason to care to press onward. However, I think that you're on the right track and I think that you have a great grasp on the mindset of a contemporary young adult like the kind being presented in the piece. You just have to focus those thoughts a bit more. You definitely show talent and potential! Keep it up.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Brandinian — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 01:02:36 -0600

Any critique would be greatly appreciated and eagerly accepted!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 10:16:05 -0600

Thanks Liz - that's really kind of you. I'm not going to say no to a more detailed crit - happy for you to nanomail me if you'd rather not lay it out on the forum. Thanks again!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Thu, 09 Feb 2012 04:34:05 -0600

I was reading this yesterday and one or two things stood out to me. The first was the line "However, even if she increased her food intake, the pounds seemed to disappear into the air as if they were evaporating like the year’s first snowfall that was failing to lay on too warm a ground outside of Jacob’s window." The first thing that jarred about this was the phrase "food intake". It sounds quite medical, and unless you intended that I didn't find it sat right with the tone of the rest of the paragraph. Perhaps say "no matter how much she ate"? The other thing was the sheer length of the sentence. Try reading it aloud! How about: "No matter how much she ate, the pounds seemed to evaporate like the first snowfall on the too-warm ground outside Jacob's window." I also found the dream sequence a little hard to follow, which could just be me. What you do capture here, though, is a very good dreamlike feeling - the images and the way the scenes drift into one another really evoke the idea of the unconscious running wild. Overall the tone and writing is absolutely what I'd expect from a magical realist novel in the vein of Angela Carter - keep it up!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Transcendent — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 09:56:54 -0600

bckesler: I'm... really confused by your prologue. Maybe that was the point? But I found the metaphors and such to be distracting more often than not. Seemed like most of it was just dialogue and bits of description that didn't really connect with one another. Maybe It's just a difference in preference as far as writing style, but I wouldn't be able to read this.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 16:57:58 -0600

Critique: There's lot of dragng before the actuall thing starts. And it's okay that it takes a while, but then it needs to be compelling in other ways. You have this amazingly accomodating appartment, but you don't describe it. Is Dan the kind of person who lets his clothes lay around on th efloor? Are there guitars all over the place? Papers from his uni work? Also if he's hiding, how can he be at uni? Why does he have such an ordinary name when the rest of the cast have names like Zipp-something-something and Balthazar? You use the construction "Quote" someone muttered/said as something something. Rather often. Try to shake it up a bit. The v-mail that Balthazar leavs is a bit akward. Also in the narrative after it, you try to convey the point that this U-something Council is hard core. That's very "Telly" Show, don't tell! Perhaps you could give an eample from Dan's previous eperience with U Council and Balthazar. You also mention some Marvin. Same thing here: show don't tell! Marvin is just a name to me as a reader. It doesn't tell me anything about why he would be awe inspiring... [quote=Transcendent] /...Any jobber got the sack; Monday morning, turning back; Yellow lorry slow, nowhere to go-/ Daniel Blum groaned and rubbed his face ~~with his hands~~ what else would he be rubbing it with? His feet?, the Beatles song ringing through his room like a siren. "Alright!" He called, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I'm up!" The song promptly stopped as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and stretched. "Must-Do list for this week?"I'm not thrilled by this opening as of yet. Someone waking up to a beatles song isn't overly gripping. Maybe if I knew that Daniel hates the Beatles it would be stronger. Somehow this reminds me of that groundhog movie. I hope the hook comes soon. "Monday: Begin Outline on Term Paper," yawn cool feminine voice intoned. Dan groaned as he stumbled to the bathroom. "Tuesday: Play at the Mooncalf Cafe with Zippy.hmm.. Always liked a musician" As itcontinued, Dan turned on the shower and stripped, checking the temperature just as the Assistant finished, somehow this sounds akward "Sunday: Day of Rest." "And thank God for it." Dan muttered as he stepped into the hot water, hissing as it slammed against his feet. "Note to self," he said loudly. "Get new blanket." "Note taken." The apartment replied. Haha I need an appartment like that. I use my phone as a voice recorder As he wet down his hair, Dan said, "Umm... Bring up v-mails, and make a cup of coffee in... let's say eleven minutes. Extra cream, extra sugar." The touchscreen installed into the wall in front of him turned on, shifted through apps before settling on v-mails, and then the face of Zipporah Wisely appeared before him, purple hair tied back and makeup noticeably absent. He grinned at the screen as the recorded message played. So there's a lot of fancy technique, but Danile isn't doing anything fun. He's getting out of bed slowly, takes a shower slowly... is he going to eat his whole breakfast to withouth anything actually happening? "Hey Dan, just making sure you remembered our gig tomorrow, and reminding you that that doesn't mean you don't have to work on your paper. As thrilling as the life of a penniless artist is, remember: You're basically living an all-expense paid, independent life with free food." HeDaniel (unless Zipporah left a v-mail while in the shower) laughed as he started massaging the shampoo into his hair. "Also.... Balthazar was calling. Says he's in the area." Hehere again, it gets a bit crazy, because you put the He=Daniel, net to what Zipp is saying froze. "Look, I know you two are still on the outs, but at least try to talk to him. For me?" "Would you like to reply?" Tthe automated voice asked. Dan shook his head ~~as he~~and (you use as ALOT rinsed the lather from his hair. "No. Next v-mail." Who says this? I'm guessing Dan? "Dan... it's me." Dan's head snapped up to stare at the screen. /Impossible... He hates technology... He'd never-/ "I don't even know if this is working, but..." Dan peered at the screen. The man he'd known several years ago was barely recognizable. His brown hair was longer and unkempt, his face was adorned with what looked like several days of stubble and several scars, and he had a worried, tired look about him. He seemed to be at a public messaging station. He'd sent it at night, so Dan could only see dim shapes behind him, but every so often a car would pass, its headlights brightening the dark background.THIS is where it's gets interesting. Some unkempt man sending a message at night. Can you get to this point quicker? Also does the man have a name? If so it's time to name it now. "You're probably a bit skeptical," the man said dryly. "Given that I would rather have a nuclear warhead shoved directly into my eyeball than poke one of these blasted things with a four foot pole. Let's see..." He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing around quickly. "My name is Balthazar Freeman.why would he say this? I'm from Wales. I can't stand anything invented after the year 2000...and this. The fact that he doesn't like technology is pretty clear already And when you were nine, you killed your first mountain troll with one of the more impressive fireballs I've seen produced by a child." He sighed. "I hope that's enough, Dan. Because this is important." "I know we parted on bad terms. After what happened to..." Balthazar pressed his lips together and Dan almost turned the message off. Almost. But curiosity and lingering affection made him hesitate, and Balthazar continued. "After what happened. But this is no time for old grudges. Something's coming. Something bad. And I need a safe place to stay to figure it out." He stopped suddenly and looked down the street, tense. Dan frowned and tried to listen, to see if he could hear what Balthazar had heard. The man turned back to camera, speaking quickly. "I don't have a lot of time. Our old safehouses are no longer reliable. Something's hunting down the Seelie Court, and while we haven't heard anything from the Unseelie Court, there's evidence that they're being attacked too. We don't know by who or what." maybe a new paragraph for Dan's action and thought that followsDan felt himself go cold despite the hot water still pouring down on him. /Who... How...?/ "I can explain more later, but... I need to be able to stay at your place. I know where you are, but it took me awhile to find you, which is promising." He smirked slightly. "You're a decent hider, Dan. One mistake. Drivers license." Dan smacked his palm against his forehead. Picture, fingerprints, info... Damn, that was a stupid move. "I'd criticize, but this might be the only hope I have." Balthazar looked down the road against, snarling something under his teeth, something in Old Welsh. He turned back to the camera. "I'll be at your apartment at witching hour tomorrow. It's..." He glanced at his watch. "April 27th, 2:26 a.m. Please be there, Dan." The v-mail ended abruptly, leaving Dan feeling rather small and utterly confused. He rubbed his handonly one hand? Also here it works to mention the hand(s) because they are rubbing, not "rubbing with his hands" against his face, trying to think. "Um... coffee?" He asked, at a loss for anything else. "Ready." He got out of the shower and dried off, his thoughts attempting to settle into some understandable stream. The Seelie and Unseelie Courts were very old, very tough, and very powerful. The idea of something hunting members of either Court was absurd. Dan had been Balthazar's apprentice from the ages of seven and eighteen, and he'd seen far too many things that made it abundantly clear that attacking a Seelie or Unseelie, honorably or dishonorably, was a Very Bad Idea. Yet now they were being hunted? To the point that Balthazar was worried? Dan wrapped the towel around his waist and stumbled into the kitchen, mussing his hair violently. Balthazar was a difficult person to worry. Chosen by the Seelie Court to act as a connection to the modern, outside world, he'd been alive long enough to literally see it all. Dan recalled occasions where he'd off-handedly mentioned a conversation with Merlin. Merlin for god's sake! Yet now he was practically begging to use Dan's apartment and jumping at sounds in the dark? The coffee was still steaming when he lifted it out of its alcove and leaned against the counter, sipping it idly. "This might be bad..." he muttered. A small, child-like laugh echoed through the otherwise quiet apartment. "Sweetie, you have no idea." Funny how this was the most intriguing line in this for me. Who's there?? [/quote] Genre: I think this is a mi of SiFi and Fantasy... Futuristic Fantasy isn't a traditional genre but I think that's what you have. Fantasy set in the future is probably the best thing to pitch it as if you'd go on to query this eventually. Buy Nah.. but if I wasn't forced to watch Daniel slowly get out of bed and into the shower, perhaps I would have been more enthusiastic. Although I'm not such a fan of fireballs.. it may be it ;) It's not bad, it just needs some more zing! Age YA

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 04:50:11 -0600

I like this. It's a slow opening paragraph, but it gets up to steam pretty quickly. One thing I would change is the name of the colony - whenever I hear "Omicron" I think of Lrrr from Futurama (who lives on Omicron Persei 8 and is always trying to devour humanity)! I'm guessing this is an unintended connotation... Genre: Sci-fi romance from this short excerpt, although something of the setting reminded me of Peter F Hamilton's space opera epics, which veer from thriller to horror via romance throughout. So room for manoeuvre if you want. This is for adults though, kids would likely have already stopped reading. I'd turn the page. I'm not a fan of romance, really, but if there was a good plot to pull it along I wouldn't find the romantic parts too off-putting. Grade: A.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 08:53:43 -0600

First, thank you for reading and critiquing! [quote=onesecondglance] I like this. It's a slow opening paragraph, but it gets up to steam pretty quickly. One thing I would change is the name of the colony - whenever I hear "Omicron" I think of Lrrr from Futurama (who lives on Omicron Persei 8 and is always trying to devour humanity)! I'm guessing this is an unintended connotation... [/quote] So here is where I confess that I myself hear Lrrr every time I read this name. :-) I am bad with names, and given my history there was a good possibility I would sink weeks - even months - into trying to pick The Perfect Name, all without writing a word. It was an anti-procrastination choice - and yeah, it's time to change it. I have struggled with the pacing in this chunk for a while. Still needs work, I think. It picks up a bit in the next 1000 words, but I think the beginning needs to be tighter if I'm going to keep people interested. [quote=onesecondglance] Genre: Sci-fi romance from this short excerpt, although something of the setting reminded me of Peter F Hamilton's space opera epics, which veer from thriller to horror via romance throughout. So room for manoeuvre if you want. This is for adults though, kids would likely have already stopped reading. [/quote] This is about right. A dead guy shows up shortly, though, so I think "space opera" is pretty much what I'm shooting for. [quote=onesecondglance] I'd turn the page. I'm not a fan of romance, really, but if there was a good plot to pull it along I wouldn't find the romantic parts too off-putting. Grade: A. [/quote] Love hearing "I'd turn the page." :-) Thank you!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

onesecondglance — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 10:25:02 -0600

Happy to help brainstorm colony names if you want. You could stick with the greek alphabet theme and go for something like Theta or Lambda that doesn't have *quite* so many connotations - perhaps start a thread on the Plot Doctoring board to get some other suggestions. :O)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lizmonster — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 14:02:53 -0600

[quote=onesecondglance] Happy to help brainstorm colony names if you want. You could stick with the greek alphabet theme and go for something like Theta or Lambda that doesn't have *quite* so many connotations - perhaps start a thread on the Plot Doctoring board to get some other suggestions. :O) [/quote] You mean "Planet Starbucks" wouldn't work? ;-) Thank you for the offer of help, and the forum suggestion. I may bounce a few ideas off of you, if you don't mind.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Transcendent — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 19:14:56 -0600

XD Understandable. I appreciate the thoughts. Uh, Marvin? You mean MERLIN?! D:

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 00:01:50 -0600

Yes Melvin. You got the point ;) I just looked up the meaning of the name Merlin. Mervin = Possibly masculine form of Malvina (Gaelic) "smooth brow"; (Irish, Gaelic) "polished chief"; (Old English) "sword friend". So I guess he might be a kick-ass fighter... But still, how would I know that? He could just as well be a lion tamer for all I know. I say, try to work in some backstory -- a short discriptive immage -- that conveys the sense of urgency that you tell me there is. I'd be more than happy to read v.2.0 too. =)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 00:05:21 -0600

Haha.. As you can see, I can't distinguish these names in my head. I bet that if I read a novel containing both a Mervin and a Merlin and a Melvin I'd be seriously lost.... Almost as when I saw "the Departed" and couldn't tell Leonardio di Caprio and Matt Damon apart... That was seriously messing with my sleep-deprived head.... I have to rewatch it some day..

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Transcendent — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 06:30:01 -0600

/snirk/ I couldn't tell them apart either. Didn't help that I came in halfway through. I was like, "What, is that the same guy?" Then they tried to explain it and... no. I was just very, very lost. Those two are twins, I swear. Description is something I know I need to work on (I either don't put enough in or I feel like I just dumped it wherever). And I read Melvin and see Yu-Gi-Oh! The Abridged Series, which is not an image I want. XD It'd be awesome if you could read v.2.0. I'm also thinking of something else, something that I picture the first chapter to being a bit more action packed...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 10:48:57 -0600

Cries, screams and arguing is what I heard from outside the room they had put us. Phrases like "I heard", "I watched", "he saw", etc., distance the reader from the story. You don't need them. We are in the 1st person POV. We know that every sight, sound, smell, taste and feeling is filtered through the POV. We were all silent, save a few sniffles from Ernie, because we were listening. Most of this can be cut. There's no need to say they were listening. The first sentence implies that. I watched the doorway, seeing adults rushing by, some with guns, others with baggage and even more with wheelie beds with screaming people on top. Again, no need for "I watched". Adults rushed by the doorway, some carrying guns, others carrying baggage or pushing hospital beds occupied by screaming patients. Just show what the POV character sees, hears, etc. Most of us looked hopefully for someone to come for us. Someone to take us home from this nightmare. I did not. I sat there numb. I knew no one was coming for me. A bit of a contradiction here. Most of "us" looked hopefully. "I" did not. It would be clearer to say "Most of the others looked hopefully". I saw the two of them in the car beside us, and even waved before the light changed and they went into the intersection. I’d have done more than waved if I had known then. The two of who? There's not enough information here for the reader to get a sense of what happened to her. She was a bit on the plump side, wore square glasses and had curly brown hair like my dolly back home. Right now she’s in my bedcovers where I tucked her in before school. At first, I thought the 2nd sentence was referring to the woman at the desk, rather than the doll. Try to make it clearer. I now knew what the officer came to say as the woman whispered back to him as he looked my way as well with a similar look. He then straightened up and said one more thing before hurrying out once more. A lot of sentences could use tightening up, but these 2 in particular. The 1st sentence uses "as" 3 times and is hard to follow. The 2nd sentence uses "one (once) more" twice. I could guess what the officer had come to say. The woman whispered something to him. He looked my way, then whispered back to her before leaving the room. You want each sentence to convey as much as possible to the reader, but adding more words isn't always the way to accomplish that. Often, choosing the right words can make all the difference. Example: John walked down the street. vs. John stumbled down Bourbon Street. The 2nd version has just as many words, but tells the reader a lot more about where John is and his current condition. If you find you have sentences with lots of prepositional phrases, try breaking them into smaller sentences or cutting phrases that aren't absolutely necessary. Her very red lips were fit into a small polite smile. I liked this description. Crouching in front of me in my chair so we could see eye to eye, she flashed me a bright flawlessly white smile. I realized then I was expecting there be fangs protruding between those perfect lips. I had no reason to think it, but it had just seemed right. More right than this Barbie level look. That was exactly what she looked like actually. A plastic smiling Barbie doll, Dr. Barbie even with her perfect lab coat and suit, complete with the skirt. I inched myself further back against the frame of the chair. And this is good too. We get some solid characterization. Much of the events in this prologue are written of in summary. Focus on the details. Show the moment to moment action. Make the reader feel like he's experiencing everything as the narrator experiences it, rather than the narrator telling about it after the fact. Your writing is much better when you are "in the moment".

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Alerane — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 11:09:47 -0600

Thank for the pointers on the awkward sentences. I tend to have a lot of grammar issues so it's always good to look at. I will be going over those words and taking out those unnecessary ones. :) The reason this sounds like a summery after the fact, is probably because it is. This is the character recalling the event herself, and the main portion of the novel is in first person perspective. The mention of her dolly is a very train of thought tangent, but I will see if I can make it more obvious. It gets a mention because it is continuously referenced further in. A note about the 'two people'. I made that line vague on purpose, because what actually happens isn't that important to the story and becomes apparent later on. I'm not sure I went about it in the right way, but that line is supposed to raise more questions than answers. I'm glad 'Dr. Barbie' 's characterization is working, because she is a key character for this scene and how it continues to unfold later.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Alerane — Fri, 09 Mar 2012 11:12:12 -0600

*the main portion of the novel is in PRESENT TENSE first person perspective How do I miss the key phrase in that. XD

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Norse man — Sat, 10 Mar 2012 20:15:43 -0600

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): First off, it was a bit longer than the max, but I will forgive you that;-) Your story obviously introduce us to tidbits of the main plot to spark an interest, bringing in a side plot through the girl, and it is generally well written. The grammar is sometimes a little odd, it actually reminds me of mistakes I am prone to make myself. You wouldn't be Scandinavian by any chance? I suppose an English speaker would be better at identifying these oddities for certain, and suggesting a different sentence structure. (It might just be me;-)) At least replace "struck" with "strike" in the river scene. The opium comparison at the start there doesn't really sit with me. Why would he use it like opium, (a numbing and euphoric drug) yet you state that it does not have any numbing effect. Doesn't really sound euphoric either... Doesn't make sense to me. The girl falling into the river and him saving her might seem a little obvious plot-wise, the way it is written you kinda expect this heroic act as soon as you have the obvious protagonist feeling guilty, a little girl showing up and the word "river". I much prefer not knowing what will the next few pages in a book. 2. Genre and age group: If I were to guess at the genre I would say crime, or something linked to supernatural events. Age group probably from 16-35 or older. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I would probably read on to see where this was going in regards to the main plot/conflict. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): 75 so far in my book.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 00:50:36 -0600

Thank you! Oops, should have read about the word-limit. . . thanks for being forgiving. And of course I'm Scandinavian! I'm from Sweden. I think it's cool that you could tell by my grammar mistakes. Good call detective Norse Man.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 08:05:32 -0500

Have to thank you again! The comment about the word "river" making things obvious really helped in the rewrite. I had thought about removing it, but wasn't sure if it would cause too much confusion. Taking what you said into account I tried to make it a bit less obvious how it was going to play out from there. Think I got most of the grammar under control as well. *celebration dance*

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 08:35:35 -0500

1. Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): You have a vivid narrativ voice, and your descriptions are wonderful. However, sometimes I feel there are a bit too much of them. I don't need to know the collour, or state of each and every object. You are the master of strong verbs! Really impressed on that point. Some of your lines are really great, and then again I feel the pace is a bit dragging by your desire to describe, flurish and adorn everything. Sometimes less is more. Try to find the balance between ex, the way you mention what people have guessed his age to be, which is rather confusing, and in my opinion unnessesary. vs. The way you talk about the mules which is wonderful. 2. Genre and age group: I'll guess paranormal, judging from the fact that he doesn't age. Set in the past, and directed towards readers from ulder YA to adult. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I would read on, but if everything continued to be described in such detail I'd probably, and unfortunately, would have to put it down. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): 80 Few things that caught my attention. [quote=Norse man] Prologue Southern Italy Lazily rising dust clouds marked the column of men and animals; their dark silhouettes could be glimpsed beneath, moving in the arid and bleak hilly landscape. The sun loomed high, baking the landscape and the unfortunate left unprotected in peak summer heat. Brown grass clang desperately to life among scattered trees, seemingly losing the fight. The roughly? clad man,wearily, noticed the strangers approach ~~warily.~~ It was time to go. He had near completed the tedious task of refilling his water skins. His breath had caught from his hurried efforts of hauling a corroded bronze bucket up and down an old well fashioned from red brick. A good well like that had been a lucky find. The armed groups who fought each other in these lands took turns poisoning or burying wells with stones, and rivers or streams in this dry landscape were scarce. Securing the vital water would heighten his chance of survival in the days to come, but loitering around to see if the strangers were friendly would not. Serving as a stark reminder of the chaotic and dangerous times were the ruins encircling the well.I'd rewrite this as "The ruins encircling the well served as a stark reminder of the chaotic and dangerous times that . . . [/quote]

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Norse man — Sun, 11 Mar 2012 09:39:08 -0500

Thank you, that is sound advice. Too many details does hinder this story's progress, it is a fault of mine, and I see I have made that mistake again. It inspired me to go through the text and shaving off quite a few that aren't essential to frame the future happenings. P.S! Nice to see a fellow Scandi writing here:-)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Badly Drawn Girl — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 15:59:11 -0500

I'm just going to jump in here seeing as you got missed out. Critique: I like what you've done to build up a picture of Mrs Lovell's character (the bustling about, her comment about how "God is angry and the angels are crying") and the setting / their situation (house with a leaking roof, the vegetables being brought to them). There's a lot of atmosphere in this exerpt. In terms of minor improvements, two things: you move from things that are going on inside Mrs Lovell's head (wondering about the sailors) to things that are going on inside Mr Gifford's head (he doesn't want to get the floor wet), which jars a little - try to stay with one viewpoint character. Also, the majority of the dialogue sounds like it's set sometime in the past, and the word "kids" jumps out at me as not quite fitting with the rest of the style. Overall I like your style and the atmosphere you create. There's some room for fine-tuning the detail. Age: Sounds like something I would read, and I'm 30. Buy or shelve: This is probably cheating but I would read the next page before deciding! I'm guessing the two children are somehow central to the story but I haven't yet found out much about them... Grade: I'm not very good with grades, sorry. I like it, though. I hope that's helpful. Yes it's scary letting others read your work but I think yours is of a high enough standard to be shared and to hopefully benefit from constructive critique.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Shujin — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 02:09:19 -0500

Critique: Your first paragraph already has me confused. You have a time based event (nineteenth birthday) which automatically makes me assume that this dream is a new and unique occurrence but apparently, it isn't. There isn't enough of a scene for me to share in the character's fear to start with and what little tension there is dissipates completely with the casual "by the way" mention of the door being unlocked. You've got some repetition going on. Alarm went off, shut it off. Double use of "wander" in the same paragraph. Is there a reason why the dream is unsettling? Does the character believe that the dream foreshadows something, is there a special dream power? I find it hard to believe anyone would spend a lot of time angsting over a nightmare which makes the suspense-building questions a bit comical instead. Age: YA probably. Shelve or Buy: Most likely shelve at this point, there isn't much to go on in sense of direction, setting or anything. Grade: C-

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kayth — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 19:12:52 -0500

I really enjoyed the voice of this piece. There were some really clever lines - the line about wanting to go insane just to pass the time made me laugh out loud. But after that, some of the passages read like info-dumps. I didn't mind the description of his apperance (though some people will), but I felt that it went on a bit too long. It would read better if you showed him and the other Collderings sneezing and coughing up blood instead of explaining that they're all ill. With three people with unusual names and two types of creatures introduced in the first 1000 words, I don't think the readers would be able to keep them all straight. You could probably drop the mention of Veshters and it would be much simpler to keep everyhting straight. The wording of the letters made me believe that Altevo was volunteering to die, not the other way around, so I was confused for a second when she told Mordecai that he didn't have to die. Rephrasing the letter slightly should clear that up. Also, the swear words seemed out of place, almost as if they were thrown in for the sake of using profanity. I'm also curiose about the first person narrator. Is he an actual character in the story? Then how does he know everything that happened? The chapter seems to be written in third person, so the few lines in first confused me. I know I wrote a lot, but I really enjoyed this chapter, and if I found this in the library it would be in my bag in a heartbeat (and I don't generally read this type of book). I give it a B; a good grade, but theres room for improvement. Good luck!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Carramae — Mon, 19 Mar 2012 16:25:15 -0500

Thanks for taking the time to review this! I guess the whole showing my work thing wasn't so bad, haha. That is a very interesting point you brought up about the varying veiwpoints. It has never occured to me, so I shall make a note of it as I reveiw and write more. And I should also pay more attention to the words I choose. I almost wish I knew someone British to make the dialogue more authentic. Perhaps I should read some more classics. And your guess is right, it is based on the two children. I am happy it sounds like something you would read! I was hoping it wouldn't just settle as a teen novel. Thanks again for the critique!!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Meowzbark — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 15:39:38 -0500

Thanks for the review. I've made some changes and decided to write it in 3rd person instead, due to the limitations of 1st person narration. Your insights were very appreciated.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 02:25:12 -0500

[quote=Kayth] When I heard that Mason had gone missing, I immediatly started to divide everything I knew into two groups: the things I could tell the police, and the things he'd want me to lie about. Excellent first lineI wrote it all out on the backs of two old science worksheets and a math test I was suppost to retake ~~today~~"today" put me of a bit since you're writing is in past tense. . . Could you use that day? Or in the afternon?. Then I triple-checked my story to make sure I hadn't screwed up ~~and screwed myself over.~~I'd try to reword the last part. It sounds as if the protagonist checked the story and then consciously screwed him/herself over It only took a couple hours to write, and less than three minutes to memorize ~~the entire thing word for word.~~You use an "it" in the beginning of the sentence so mentioning "the entire thing" later on is cake on of cake (don't know if you have that expression in English, but I think you use gild the lilly). I thought about sticking themthem is a really weak noun. Be specific! The papers? down the shredder when I was done, but then I remembered a dumb crime show where the detective pieced the tiny strips of paper back together and caught the killer. Not that I was stupid enough to think they'd actually take the time to do that in real life. ~~But I~~ Still, I flushed them down the toilet instead, just to be sure. Then I was ready to head to the police station. This was all part of our plan. Of course, this particular plan had been filed under just-in-case, never-gonna-happen. We'd pinkie sweared in third grade to be PCFs – Partners in Crime Forever. The idea that one of us would do something illegal without the other was unbelievable. Until, you know, it happened. (Is it illegal to take your mom's car without asking, or would that just be considered family problems? Not that it matters. He's still going to be busted for driving without a license. He never even got his permit; I'm amazed that he's been gone for two days without the car nosediving off a cliff or something.) The fact that this entire paragraph is in brackets only hilights how distracting it is. It doesn't really add much to your story at this point Theres only one thing standing between me and the police station now: Mom.You've switched tempus here. That's strange. The woman with a capital M and an invisible B that stands for a word I can't say in front of my sister. I slid her bedroom door open. She was sprawled across her side of the bed with her cheek pressed against the corner of her bedside table. Dad's side was crumpled, even though he hadn't been home last night. Maybe Mom had rolled over and messed up the whole bed herself – after all, I hadn't heard anything last night that would, uh, suggest that someone else had been in here. Plus, bringing someone to our house would be risky. What if I caught them? All the years of lies would fall apart.This paragraph is strong. It SHOWS your reader how dysfunctional the family is. Well done! I think you could even take out the "Plus, bringing......fall aparet" "I'm going to the police station," I said, just so I could claim later that I'd told her. In two minutes she wouldn't even remember that I'd been here. She squirmed and pulled the covers over her head, mumbling in what was either French or gibberish. I didn't know what she'd actually said, but I took a shot at answering anyways. "I put Luce on the bus, and I'll be back to pick her up at three. I'll start the laundry when I get home. Love you." The last two words nearly choked me, but I swear they had a magical quality that guarenteed I'd get my way. She sighed a little and rolled over without a single question about why I wasn't in school. Her gasping snores filled the room, and I eased the door shut behind me. The police station was a half hour walk, assuming I didn't get run down by some road-rage idiot who didn't want to accept that he could only drive 25 miles an hour.A bit distracting. . . Does "I" often get run down?" Normally this wouldn't seem like a bad walk, but the police were going to guarentee that today would be all-around suckish. No way I wanted to face an hour walk on top of that. Besides, stealing a car was number seven on me and Mason's bucket list, and there was no way I'd let him get ahead of me. I grabbed Mom's keys and headed to the garage. Mason might've been first, but I was going to crush him when it came to style. What could be greater than illegally driving a borrowed car straight to the police? Actually, it wasn't as cool as I'd thought it would be, mostly since it had to be the slowest drive in history. I didn't dare go faster than five below the speed limit – to avoid the stupid cop who pull people over for going three above, that asshole – and I had to keep pulling over to let inconsiderate jerks pass me, saluting me with their middle finger the whole time. I was tempted to slow my speed to about five miles an hour so that I could trap a certain horn-blaring idiot in a no-passing zone, but I resisted. The point was to avoid being arrested. Passive-aggressive road rage wouldn't help. I think this paragraph was kind of funny. Thought I'd say If I'd known what was waiting for me at the police station, I would've taken a whole lot longer – maybe an extra hour or two, just to be safe. Because standing outside the building was the last person I wanted to see. She was obviously sobbing into what looked like a wad of thrity or forty tissues, but somehow her blonde hair still looked perfect. It even managed to blow in the nonexistant wind. That alone was enough to give her away, even before I saw her face. Mrs. Finn. Mason's mother. I threw the car into reverse, but it was too late. She'd seen me. She turned and marched straight for my car, and somehow her red-rimmed eyes made her seem fiercer than ever. My foot hovered over the gas pedal as I weighed the odds of a clean getaway. But she'd probably race after me. I shifted into park. She tapped on my window until I rolled it down. "Violette," she said, and I tried to keep from wincing at the sickly way she said my name. As if it wasn't already bad enough. "I didn't know you got your licence." "Oh, yeah." Of course I didn't have it, but I couldn't exactly say that now. "I got it last week. On my birthday." [/quote] Critique There's a few nit picks that you should look over, but other than that you have a good flow in your excerpt. You certainly have some really good writing in here -- I especially liked the scene whith the mother being in bed, so sublim. Your opening line is really intriguing, and actually it was from reading that one in the "first line thread" that I decided to read your excerpt. So good on you. I think that the whole paragraph in brackets can easily be taken out. And clear off the "scaffold" -- that will say, sentences that are tell-y instead of show-y. Ex. "All the years of lies would fall apart." Takes away from the effect of that under the skin feeling that this family isn't very functional (in the general sense that the parents are parents). Age group Your style is rather youthful, and I assume this falls in the YA category. I happen to like alot of YA that I've read, but then mostly the language hasn't been this "mordern". . . I think that can put some people of a bit. Buy/Shelf? I'd go on reading at this point to see what Mason has done, and what story Violette is about to give to the police. I wouldn't buy it unless I'd heard everybody talk about this book, or I really really liked the blurb. But you're definately on right track with your story telling.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Kayth — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 17:54:54 -0500

[quote=fni] It felt as if I was breaking an unwritten rule reading Anna Braam’s diary, but my boss, Dr Claus Truman had assured me that nothing is sacred to a folklorist. I read your original line in the first line thread, and this one is MUCH stronger Really, me being a folklorist was only his wistful thinking -- I had finished my M. Pill in archaeology a month earlier -- but, at any rate, Anna Braam had been dead for nearly four hundred years, and her tattered diary could be our only chance to learn what had actually transpired in Darwenwood in 1613. Poring over the leather bound journal, I untangled the tortuous handwriting, occasionally sipping my tea. The words pulled me further and further into the intrigues and everyday life of a merchant’s daughter. But I was yet to read something about the woman we suspected had been ~~hung~~ I assume you mean hanged, as in they put a noose around her neck. If she was anctually hung from something, make sure to clarify that. and burnt at the stake, accused of being a witch. The mildewed pages gave off a musty smell with a hint of vanilla. Why vanilla? I don't have any experiance with centuries-old books, but this seems a bit odd to me. It was a scent I associate so strongly with the old books in the Bodleian Library back home in Oxford, that at one point in the afternoon, I had caught myself thinking I was sitting by the history collections in the Rad Cam Gallery. Of course, one look at the Ziploc-bagged artefacts on the table had been enough to remind me that I was in the dining room at the Wilburs’ bed and breakfast in Anna Braam’s hometown. This feels as though your trying to tell the reader where she is and where she she came from. I'm also not entirely convinced that she could forget where she is, unless the two places are extreemly similar. Rain pattered steadily against the window. Claus and I had been in Darwenwood for eighteen days, and this was the second day in a row that the weather had prevented us from working at the excavation. My colleague was sitting across from me, viewing a CD-ROM with photocopies of the parish register on his MacBook, and suddenly he let out, “Hmm. . . . that’s strange. Hannah, look at this!” I raised my eyes from the diary. The light from the laptop screen reflected on the glass of Claus’ thin rimmed glasses. Nice description. He was a lanky man whose hair bore signs of a lengthy career in research. “What’s that?” I asked, and poured some more water on my wishy-washy teabag. Claus turned his computer around and leaned over the table to make sure he was pointing at the right entry. I squinted and pulled a bit closer. The handwriting in the parish register was ~~if possible~~ even more winding than in the diary under my chin, if possible, and the entry Claus was pointing at had been crossed out with a stroke of black ink. “I really can’t see anything,” I told him with a light shrug. “Why has it been crossed out?” “That’s what’s strange,” Claus said, unplugging the laptop. “In rare cases when someone moved from a parish their entry was crossed out, but whoever kept these records actually took his time to make notes about migrations. Here, can you try to make the picture bigger for me?” I smiled and took the computer from his hands. If there was one reason Claus really needed my presence in Darwenwood, it was to manage his new MacBook. I put the diary aside and cleared some space among my notes on the table. It took me about a minute to take a screenshot of the parish register, crop out the strange entry, and blew it up till it covered the whole screen. Then I played around with the contrast for a while, and when I was satisfied I saved the image on the desktop. “Looks like you’ve got two different types of ink,” I said and handed the laptop back to Claus. “So have you decided yet?” he asked. He was referring to my possible doctoral studies. The university had finally granted his request to be allowed to supervise a folklorist -- His research in the European witch-hunt and folklore surrounding witchcraft had always been filed under the anthropology department, much to his chagrin -- and for reasons I couldn’t understand he wanted me to be his test dummy. He had offered me the job in Darwenwood in exchange for my serious consideration of a future as a folklorist. His question seems a bit random; I don't quite understand the transition from the ink to her doctoral studies. I'd been expecting to learn more about the register, which seems like the most interesting part of the chapter. I sighed and tucked a sling of my brown hair behind my ear. “I’m still thinking about it. . . I mean, I don’t even believe in any of that stuff.” “But that’s not the point,” Claus assured me, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “You don’t have to believe in myths to study them. Take this case for example.” He pointed at my stack of notes. “Neither of us believes that the woman who might have been accused for witchcraft actually had the ability to commit such a crime, but we’re here to find out why the villager believed it at the time, ~~and why all those ghost stories arose.”~~ I thought this read better if the last bit was cut off. It makes the sentance stronger and less awkward. “Mmm, I suppose,” I mumbled. “But how often would I find a case like this? Probably never.” “There are as many cases as there are myths and legends. Perhaps not where you’d get to dig in the ground, but in books.” “Ask me on the way back to Oxford,” I said shortly. Claus knew better than to push me. I head him take out a paper and then, extremely slowly, as if he was thinking before every letter, write something down. Frustrated, I found that my concentration had scattered with his question. Seeing that it was nearly time to call it a day, I took the can with deacidification spray, and started treating some more of the pages in the diary. The spray was supposed to stop the deterioration. Claus cleared his throat. “I think our crossed-out entry reads: On the second of November sixteen-four Oscar Norman and his sister Abigail immigrated from the borough of Liverpool.” Is this properly punctuated? It looks to me like its missing a comma, but I'm not sure how the punctuation was diffrent 400 years ago. “Did you say Norman?” I put down the spray can so hastily that it fell over, and had to remind myself to handle Ann Braam’s diary with care ~~when~~ as I flipped through the pages. “Here!” I exclaimed, when I found the entry I was looking for. [/quote] Critique Overall, the writing is strong, though there is a small problem with info dumps. Of course, thats expected with a first chapter, and with a bit of editing I think the info will fold smoothly into the story without being distracting. I have a good idea of what the characters are physically doing, but I'd like a better idea of Hannah's emotions throughout the entire chapter. Age group Obviously aimed at adults. I'd guess that the genre is a thriller with a historical angle. Buy or shelf? I'd probably sit down and read through the full chapter (and maybe the next one) before deciding. I don't think I'd buy it, since I don't normally read this genre, but I'd put it in my bag if I happened upon it at the library.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Wed, 21 Mar 2012 12:23:38 -0500

Thank you so much for the critique. It has been valuable in the rewrite. =) Yeah, info dumps. . . I could easily write a prolouge for this story that makes Tolkien's seem like a tweet, but what fun would that be? I promise it's only in the first half of the first chapter.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 13:41:39 -0500

Critique: I loved this, first of all. Its description was most excellent, easy to see. The wording was superb. And the emotion was very believable. It was easy to read, and I enjoyed especially the paragraph describing the Father's realization and coming to "terms" with his cancer in the shower. The entire scene was very realistic and believable. The only thing I would suggest is actually the very last sentence. "I am that same Sean Goodman, Father Michael." For some reason just reads oddly to me. "I am that doctor, Sean Goodman," perhaps, or something similar, might make it flow more. Something like that. Just because it is the first introduction of his name. Nuance, really. Grammar: No real issues there. Put down/buy/turn the page: I'd probably buy it. Grade: A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 13:35:02 -0500

Critique: “The man began to think.” I might put a little more meat in this, or word it differently, because immediately after this reference you flip to talking about a “she.” It could potentially be somewhat confusing. “There were upsides to kidnapping rich families.” Maybe you should insert a from into this. Unless he's planning on kidnapping the entire family, but then nobody would be left to pay the ransom, and that may just be a tiny flaw in the guy's plan. Check the spelling of “neighbors.” The changes between paragraphs seems disjunctive. It doesn't flow very well, too abrupt. I understand what you're doing; your changing between COR's (centers of revelation) within an omniscient text in the same passage. I would advise against it. I would tell the entire encounter through either person's eyes, or perhaps if you want the chance to tell it from each view, perhaps you would consider doing so in two different documents. Then, see which one jives better with you. As it is, the flipping between the young female victim and the kidnapper leaves a gap of confusion. “The man smiled evilly” I might go with a different adjective here. It's a tad bit cliched to use the term “evilly,” going for the impression of him being “a bad guy” a bit too hard. Perhaps conspiratorially, as he's planning on abducting the child as he watches her. “...but if that’s what the circumstances required, he was sure the boss would understand.” Maybe be a little more specific. Here is a place where you can start painting the mind of your villain without actually having to outright say “I'm a bad guy.” Describe what he might to do her, how he might be willing to harm her if “circumstance” arises. “She wasn’t the sort of person to make a grudge.” I think you mean “to hold a grudge.” “...or she could give in and be taken away with her family.” You make quite a few references about her whole family having been kidnapped, which leaves me as a reader rather puzzled. That's odd, at least by kidnapping standards, especially as you mentioned that this is in fact a rather affluent family. Typically one would be taken, and a ransom demanded for. Because you explicitly stated their wealth, immediately I start making assumptions, and am not left with further explanation. It makes the text seem slightly rushed overall. I would perhaps consider giving more explanation. What you're lacking here is detail; a lot of things happen that could be drawn out to create suspense, and a lot of things could be expounded upon. Grammar: I'm not a fan of the “ok.” Maybe “alright” or even “alive.” He was in a flipped car, it'd be something of a miracle if he was still breathing at all. Put down/buy/turn the page: At this point, with the level of polishing needed, I'd probably just put it down. But with polishing, you have an interesting plot developing that shows promise. Grade: C

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 14:05:42 -0500

And now, for using the wrong "you're," I shall proceed to give myself 40 lashes. Terribly sorry.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Prosaurus — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 21:08:47 -0500

Haha. Yeah, I'm aware it needs polishing; the one time I went back and read a few sentences I was appalled with the flow. Also, it seems plenty of your critique is about a lack of detail and explanations. I'm quite aware I'm terrible with descriptions and such, I was hoping to be better by the time I get to my next draft. As for explanations to things, I recently decided this would be part two to my 3/4 part book, with part 1 covering another character which should provide those explanations. The entire family is being taken, yes, with reason. Thanks for pointing out your assumption about the ransom; I wouldn't have thought of something like that. He's taking them for other reasons (which are a secret :) ). As for the guy surviving the car wreck, well, he isn't exactly a normal human... (About 'neighbours' and any other spelling differences, I'm in New Zealand, we spell stuff differently here.) Thanks for the critique!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 01:11:13 -0500

Critique: “...some tumbling down as they [were] smashed, others holding on for dear life, and yet others firing their arrows into the sea of shiny black warriors.” “...boulders coming [into] the kingdom, and Aren was trying to come up with a way to put an end to the contraptions.” “The huge warrior carried a red sword, seeming to gleam with blood. [Maybe you should actually COAT the sword in blood. Even more menacing, don't you think?]” “But what caught Aren's eye in the warrior was the being's [I would keep this man's.]” Also: [Maybe move the mention of the blood red sword after the mention of his attire to make it flow a bit more.] “He wouldn't leave [while] his men were brutally slaughtered.” Overall I thought it an engaging read, you had a lot of detail. If I may, though, you spend a lot of time on attire, but not nearly as much on surroundings. I would describe more about the actual battle taking place. The sights, the smells, the taste of blood being spilled, hanging heavy in the air. You have five senses, make your reader aware of them while they are perusing your text. Don't count on them to read it and fill in the details, grab them by the throat, and don't let go. Grammar: I've already covered that in the critique, though you have a few run-ones, not too big of a deal. Turn page/buy/put down: Probably turn the page. Grade: B. with a little polishing I'd certainly read it, I detect a solid Tolkien-esque air to it that I like.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Sat, 24 Mar 2012 23:57:37 -0500

Well, if you're so prone, gung-ho and enthusiastic I would quite like a critique of the exerpt I did. Perhaps you should post one of yours as well. I do so enjoy the axe.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

andrew.mack — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 00:15:09 -0500

Allegorist476, I have just changed the excerpt on my profile to reflect my completed chapter one. Hope it isn't too intimidating. I will PM you with my thoughts on your piece.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

frenziedmythology — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 13:12:23 -0500

Thanks, to evryone who criqitued me,. it helped. :) I'll take what you said into account and work on it for later ;)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 02:59:22 -0500

[quote=boondockkid1016] I need a critique on my first chapter of my novel here. There are things I think are wrong with it, but the most important is that I am giving away too much information between a couple of characters. I am not writing a full novel but a short story. Sephira looked out from the cash register. It was raining. The drops falling ever so elegantly down the glass windows of the café as if they were dancers performing a graceful ballet. This makes it seem like the rain is very fine, and fall in the style of snowflakes. . . Though I like the idea of a ballet, I'm not sure it connects well to rain. . . Perhap's I'm influenced by the way rain seem to dropp to the ground like missiles where I live. ~~She brushes her black hair aside from covering her face.~~ Here the picture becomes a bit odd in my head, because I can't understand why she would have her whole black hair covering her face like a curtain. Could it be some strands of black hair? Or that persistant strand of her outgrown fringe? The café wasn’t busy today, so Sephira noted, taking a quick look around. Mostly regulars were sitting in the soft lounge chairs, drinking their coffees, reading the paper, typing on their laptops, or texting on their phones. A few stuck out, the man in a black coat who always ordersed a London fog tea, and reads the daily newspaper.Be cautious with your tenses! Sephira smiled. He always left a five dollar bill as a tip. There were two young women similar in age to Sephira, but they were very preppy dressed in Prada clothes and carried Douche and Gabana purses. They were always texting each other though they ~~were two feet from each other~~sat two feet apaert. There was a teacher, Ms Alba, who drank black coffee while marking her students’ schoolwork. “What are you staring at?” Berenice asked. ~~Berenice was shorter than the tall Sephira.~~Berenice was average height but still a head shorter than Sephira. She had a gentle look with her round face and brown eyes. When Sephira ~~started~~had begun working at the café, Berenice had immideately become one of her closest and best of friends. Leaning over the counter still staring out at the rain, Sephira didn’t even look at Berenice. “Nothing. Just the rain.” but she was reacently looking at the guests. Perhaps she wasn't still staring at the rain. . Perhaps she looked back at it? Berenice nodded at the clock. “Well it’s almost time for the night shift to show up.” Sephira looked at the clock. It was three-fifty. She would be done in ten minutes, well unless the night shift wasn’t late again. She looked over at the customers. The man in the black coat got up and left a five dollar bill on the table. He smiled and nodded to Sephira. She smiled back and grabbed a cloth and spray bottle. Chose your words with care. clock-clock. looked-looked. She smiled at Berenice while she cleaned the table and picked up the small plate. “Well it looks like Mike is going to be late again.” Sephira pointed at the clock. Berenice laughed. “No surprise. Oh well. Hey, are you doing anything after work? Cause there is this movie at the theatre at seven that I wanted to see.” Sephira shook her head. “Sure, I’d love to go. But I have to clean my apartment so I have to go home first.” “Are you sure you want to be walking in all this rain?” Berenice threw a look of concern. This makes me think the rain is more like missiles than dancers. . . Uless it's a very violent ballet. Sephira laughed. “Yeah, I’ll be ok. I’m only a few blocks away. If the rain still keeps up, you can pick me up at seven though.” Berenice smiled. “Sure.” Mike ended up showing up five after four. Sephira was happy though that he had arrived at all. She grabbed her coat and her umbrella and made her way home. There was hardly anyone on the street, the cars rolling by ~~throwing~~ threwwater onto the sidewalk when their tires struck a puddle. Thunder and lightning filled the darkened skies. Sephira crossed over into an alley, her apartment just ahead on the other side. As she made her way down the alley, a cold chill rolled down her back. The alley was empty and the streets outside were quiet, no cars, no people; just the roar of the thunder and the clash of the lightening. She walked slowly, her muscles clinched and her umbrella held close; her hands clenching onto it for dear life regretting not getting that ride from Berenice. Though alert, skittish almost, Sephira never saw the board crack across the back of her head. Blackness came next. Did something just hit her? You just jumped head I think. . . A bit confusingIt moved silently, close to the shadows of the buildings. A shadow, a ghost it was. It moved up the side of a building, passing close to windows and short balconies. The rain never bothered it. It was used to the rain. It also didn’t fear of being seen, or spotted by some curious kid or a weird conspiracy nut. Inside it chuckled; she had seen enough of those over the years.she as in Sephia or the shadowy thingy? seen enough of what? The conspiracy nuts? Besides if anyone saw it, they would only see a small cloud of grey smoke. Nothing suspicious at all. Only the Faith would spot it and the last thing it wanted was to be seen by them. Fortunately, the Faith hadn’t been seen for a few months now. It came to the top of the building and stayed close to the smoke stacks as they hid it truly. It slithered across and came to the end of the roof with an alley below. It made her way down the building into the alley. "Ahh, quiet. That’s comforting." So this thing is a she? Then I don't think you need to write "it" but I more like "it" at beeing "it". . . Perhaps it's "made its way down" Something made it stop dead and skulk back to the darkness of the shadows. Of course shadows are dark! It couldn’t see as the great monkeys could with eyes, but it could feel heat. Not the heat of a vent or an engine, but of a living creature.You know, physiologically this is impossible. If the creatures eyes detect infra red light (heat) there wouldn't be a distinction because of the heat source But the heat was fading fast. Damn it. I can’t keep moving. Something must be hurt bad. It felt it’s way to the heat source. It could tell from the heat that it was a monkey." It’s dying. Can’t break the Code. But I can’t leave it here to die. I have no choice and the others should understand that." It entered the body through the mouth, nose and ears. It filled up the lungs and encircled the brain. It had a better idea of what happened. Apparently, this monkey had been struck on the back of the head and blood was coming out of it’s head." Alright, I know what to do." With all it’s strength, the wound healed and closed. The lungs filled with air as the smoke moved all over the body, waking it up." What are you? What do the monkeys call you?" Piercing through it’s memories and thoughts, it found what it needed. "Ah, there it is. Hello Sephira, I am called Eris.” Sephira awoke in her bed with a cold cloth on her forehead. “Ugh, how did I end up here.” She was out of her work clothes and in a light t shirt and sweatpants. She couldn’t remember getting herself into bed. Sephira checked the clock. It read eight-thirty. “Oh my god, I forgot. Shit! Berenice is going to kill me.” “No she won’t. I called her and told her that you weren’t feeling too well.” Sephira stopped dead in her tracks. “Hello? Hello? Is anyone here?” She checked her hallway. The apartment looked empty. “Yes? Hello.” She stopped again, this time grabbing her umbrella. She walked to her bathroom to hide. “I must have been hit harder than I thought. I’m hearing voices.” “You’re not crazy silly. You’re just carrying some extra baggage.” Sephira could hear laughing in her head. She dropped the umbrella and ran cold water from her tap in the bathroom. She splashed her face with water and wiped it with a cloth. She looked into the mirror. “Still feel crazy?” Sephira threw her hands over her mouth. Those words came from her own mouth. “Who are you?” She was still staring at the mirror. The face in the mirror began to laugh. That was her laugh though. “I saved your life silly girl.” “What happened to me?” Sephira started to breathe heavily. “You were hit in the head. Looks like a robbery. They took your purse. I came across you. You were bleeding a lot and would have died. I saved you by joining with you.” Sephira put her hands in her head and shook her head. “I don’t understand. What are you?” Suddenly without warning, Sephira took her head out of her hands and walked to the kitchen.EXCUSE ME?! Did she pick her head off her shoulders and walk out in the kitchen? This is strangely worded. . . She opened up a cabinet and pulled out a kettle. She filled it with water and placed it on the stove. “Sorry dear, but this is going to take a while to process. I will fill you in, but I have always felt that tea makes things go down smoother." She took out a can of tea. “Very nice, earl grey.” As she went through the fridge and pulled out cheese and biscuits, the kettle screamed. She mixed the earl grey, the hot kettle water and cream together. Then toasted the biscuits, buttered them and placed a slice of cheese in between the bread. Sephira sat at the table and took a sip of tea. “Ok, I am going to give you control of your body again, but you have to promise not to lose it again. You swear?” “I swear.” Sephira replied. Suddenly, Sephira could move her body again. The experience felt weird like an autopilot. “What is your name? Or did you take mine as well.” The voice in her head replied. “Eat some of the biscuits. Try the tea, it is so nice. My name is not yours though we share the same body. I am known as Eris.” “Eris? What kind of name is that?” Sephira said between bites.What kind of name's Sephira? I think Eris is less vierd “Don’t talk with your mouth full. You monkeys are such a rude species. No wonder mine find it so easy to share your bodies.” Sephira was trying to take this in as best she could. “Wait, wait. Are you saying that there are others like you?” “Of course there are others like me. Not many left though. I was left behind a long time ago.” Sephira was starting to get impatient. “You still haven’t answered my question. What are you?” She could hear the same chuckling in her head. "Silly girl, my name is Eris. I am a jinn, a creature of ash and smoke. I was once worshipped by your ancestors as the goddess of discord. No idea why, I tried to help your ancestors but they just weren’t getting what I was teaching them." “Slow down. Are you telling me that you are a god of some kind?” “No no. Your ancestors took me and others like me as gods when we ruled here. We were called gods because we taught your reading, writing, agriculture, the wheel, animal husbandry as well as other skills. You were so fascinating back then. Nothing more than chimps from the trees” “So you are an old species?” “Yes, we evolved long before you did. We remember when your kind were still living in trees above the ground. We lived in caves and near volcanoes. Over time, we began to take your kind as hosts and we built the great empires of early human history. We taught you and you made us gods and kings.” [/quote] critique First of all, this was nearly double the lenght than what the "rules" allow. Make a habit of looking up the guidlines, for future dealing with queries and such. I think you have a fun concept going on, but your prose is a bit muddled. The dialogue sometimes sound a bit stale. I would have liked Sephia to freak out a bit more. Additional comments-- see above. Age group and genre YA, paranormal Shelf/buy? I'd shelf it at this point. But that's to do with the writing and not the story it self. Many people can write well, but lack the mind to come up with a intriguing, original story. You -- I think -- have the mind of a storyteller, but need to sharpen your pen. Read allot, make lists of strong verbs, edit, rewrite, rewrite and rewrite again. Make every word count. Make your pictures clear, and true. Grade I suck at giving grades, so I'll just say: It's not perfect, and it's not tacky. The story is there, but the dialogue is stale.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

boondockkid1016 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 20:51:38 -0500

Thank you. I will reedit this. I like this story, and I dont want to give up on it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Laurence — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 12:50:01 -0500

Woops... that was meant to be a reply to you, Fni

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 06:24:00 -0500

Thank you Laurence! You're right about it being a bit akward to introduce yourself in a store. I've changed that now ;) And the man is who Hannah thought he was, only she can't remember it yet.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 16:24:21 -0500

Critique: If I bother to lift my head up from the desk and look around, I would find kids with their headphones on; their PDAs out, texting and calling; or just sitting with their heads slumped on the desk, bored out of their minds. [This is a bit of an over-use of the semi-colon. Remember you only use that when you are literally joining what should be two sentences into one sentence. Try to resist semi colon over-use.] With what my mum does, I constantly get told how cool it must be to have a mum who is a highly successful, and well known hero; stopping crimes in progress, effortlessly eliminating dangerous crime lords, and thwarting the hundreds of psychotic villains who think that they’re powerful enough to force themselves into power, and “control” the country, before they’re quickly killed, and never heard from again. [Waaaaaaay too long of a sentence here. It could technically be a paragraph of its own. Don't be afraid of putting a period and starting a new sentence now and then, I'm catching on to a habit of rambling your sentences. This can be good at times, if done right, but your work seems a bit saturated with it.] Personally, I like it, and my mum lets me go out like this, so that’s all that matters, right. [This should probably be a question posed to the audience, if you're alright with your character addressing the audience. I'm not a fan of the idea, but otherwise in my head this voice that started talking suddenly goes flat at the end of the sentence.] Tracy is sleeping over at mine tonight, and she’s starting to make wild assumptions of what my home life is actually like. [Sleeping over at my house?] If I'm being totally honest, my main issue with both of the characters presented here: I do not care about them. The boy strikes me as whiny and condescending, the girl as a common ditz with not an overly large amount of sustenance between her ears. Now, I understand they are 12. That's another thing that puzzled me. The conversation sounds more like something that would take place in a high school, it seems to me your age group and your dialogue do not synch up with being believable. Of course, it's been a while since I mingled with 12 year olds, maybe they do talk about dating all the time, but I surely hope that isn't the case. When I was 12, boys still had cooties, and I'm not that old (yet.) A HUGE part of a book is your character. From the get go, yes, please, put flaws in them. But if you want it to be a protagonist, do not, do NOT forget to put something that will attract the reader. Perhaps a tragic flaw. Perhaps a certain amount of loyalty towards friends/family. If you want it to be a whiny character, let it be a whiny character, but understand that that will typically put a lot of readers off. Remember that if the reader doesn't care what happens to the character, then most of the time they probably won't care much about the story. What makes your heart race a lot of the time while reading is caring about the physical and mental state of being the protagonist is in. If you feel nothing when they're hanging around death's door, it's an issue. My opinion of your characters is of course not set in stone, nor the only correct response, but if I manage to feel this way, I won't end up being the only one. Just alter the prose slightly, he can whine, but don't make him whine his way through the entire passage. Grammar: You have quite a few run-ons in here, as well as some misspellings: “Realize, jewelery, offense.” Good things: I do like the world you're building up, though I feel that could use a bit more description. Let that take more precedence over the prose, if you will, work that up, and then keep your reader engaged with that alongside following the underlying story of an awkward boy who is living in his mother's shadow. The premise is good, it just needs help with flow. Grade: I've decided to stop putting this, I don't see the point of it anyway, it's not a useful part of a critique. Put down/buy/turn the page: At this point I'd put it down, but with a bit of work it would be a story that I would be interested in.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 29 Mar 2012 19:49:54 -0500

Heh...sustenance. SUBSTANCE. Went all zombie on you there for a moment, do forgive me.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Laurence — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 05:29:54 -0500

Thanks for the review! You're not the first to think that Taylor is a boy... maybe that's something I should work on, too. Actually, reading it back, she doesn't exactly come across that feminine, does she? But yeah, thanks for unintentionally telling me that I need to work on that. :D From what I've read (on yahoo answers...) some twelve year olds date. Now, what they talk about on dates, I couldn't tell you. I kind of figured that my prose would be the problem, though. But, I'm trying to think back to what things were like when I was twelve. I'm sure they talk about some pretty pointless things, but still have some level of maturity... I think... I knew a few twelve year old girls, and they didn't seem that immature. But I'll still try to tone Taylor, and maybe Tracy, down, a little. By the way, I'm British so the spellings are correct over on this side of the atlantic. :D The grammar, however... yeah, I'll work on that. As for actually caring about the characters. Thanks for telling me that, now. Because not that long after this scene, some things start to go down, that would be kind of pointless, if people don't actually care about the characters. Thanks, again, for reviewing! :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 09:29:53 -0500

This is very good. There are some things that could use tightening up, but otherwise it is solid. Grand paintings, detailed with an expert brush, seemed to watch and follow the passerby with eyes that nearly jumped off the canvas with their own life. I think you can cut "with their own life". Actually, you could probably cut everything after "passerby". interspersed the stone to make the heavy Gothic masonry somewhat lighter. Rather than "somewhat lighter", consider "less oppressive". It was into these halls that Larken, firstborn of the Regent of Plinar, wandered. "wandered" makes it sound like he is there by accident. The massive oaken doors opened wide before him with a resounding thud, echoing down through the many cavernous passageways in a way that almost seemed sacrilegiously disruptive. Did he open the doors, or did someone else? I think you can change "sacrilegiously disruptive" to just "sacrilegious". Those many acrylic visages glared at his back as he passed, mocking him. You might want to find another word besides "acrylic". From doing a quick search, it seems that acrylic paints weren't widely used until the 1960's. He imagined their hushed whispers, false conspiracies muttered by painted lips. Not good enough, they said. Not good enough to be a Regent's son. Mottled one. Unworthy one. I like this, but is Larken so sure that the conspiracies are false? He doesn't seem all that confident that the imagined words aren't true. His face as a whole was not unpleasant...and the corners of his mouth were curved downward in a faint grimace. You might want to think about cutting some, or all of this passage. Stopping to describe what he looks like slows the narrative and pulls us out of his POV. Door after door ~~lead~~ [led] into varied parlors and bedrooms and dining areas, with little indication on their surface as to what precisely lay behind them. And though each the twin of the other, they... "each the twin of the other" confused me at first because I didn't know what you were refering to. As I read on, it became clear that you were referring to the doors, but you mentioned "door after door", so I would think "twin" doesn't really apply, since there are more than 2 doors. The very building cried out in agony at his trespassing; the entire manor surely wanted to heave and retch him from its bowels before he could do any more disgraceful damage. I liked this too, but I wonder what is meant by "disgraceful damage". Is there something that Larken did that hasn't been mentioned? If so, you might want to mention it. If not, you might want to change the wording. After what seemed an eternity, he arrived at another [set] of doors. Wrought painstakingly in cast iron, upon their surface was rendered ~~with~~ [an] image of a monstrous sra... The claws seemed ~~the~~ [to] protrude out towards those wishing entrance... The fangs of the sra were menacing, the snout feline-like and elongated in an unnatural way. The hindquarters of the image were heavily muscled, allowing it to rise upwards while its spindly, groping forelegs jutted forward. A psychological ploy, of course. Sra were mythical creatures said to have the capacity to see anything, both external and internal, the ability to see into the soul. In essence it was meant to frighten any visitor who might be in possession of harmful secrets. Take care of how often you use "to be". Try to use stronger verbs when possible. I see your heart, and I know your intentions. This might work better if you replace "intentions" with "mind".

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 08:00:30 -0500

Taylor is a girl? ...Clearly I didn't read it as intensively as I thought I had. Terribly sorry.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Honeybadger12345 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 22:31:53 -0500

...I thought Taylor was a boy too...well this is awkward...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 12:35:53 -0500

Thank you very much for your critique! A few things to note, though: -Larken feels shame for his "mottling." You get more detail as the passage continues, this is only half of the text. -This is not actually earth, so the use of "acrylic" and the set time period need not coincide. I see what you mean about the "to be." Such things often become invisible after you read a text too many times for editing. Another thing I notice is "as though" and "seems" in writing. They seem to crop up much too frequently. Thank you again.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 13:55:36 -0500

Larken feels shame for his "mottling." You get more detail as the passage continues, this is only half of the text. I understand how he feels about it. What I was referring to is the large paragraph of description: His face as a whole was not unpleasant, simply disenchanting from what most expected of the Regent's son. Bright green eyes, keen and always focused on his surroundings, stood out against his pale skin, and his hair, black in color, had an almost endearingly unkempt appeal to it. The presence of dark circles beneath those vivid eyes made it evident that he was given to entertaining frequent and thorough ponderings, despite his age. Or that he was simply prone to insomnia. Though he was only eighteen years in age, the presence of a line between his brows told of a nearly constant worrying. Even as he walked, those brows were pinched together, and the corners of his mouth were curved downward in a faint grimace. You've moved away from Larken's perspective here. He may be self-conscious about the mottling, and would think of it often, but how often would he really be thinking about "dark circles beneath those vivid eyes"? Would he really think that his hair had an "almost endearingly unkempt appeal to it"? These are the thoughts of the narrator, not of the character. The narrative has stopped to describe Larken in detail. The first paragraph is similar, but gets a pass because it is the first paragraph and the POV hasn't been established yet. And it at least serves a purpose when Larken's opinions are given in contrast. IMO, you would be better off finding more active ways to show what he looks like, and sprinkle it in rather than giving it all at once. This is not actually earth, so the use of "acrylic" and the set time period need not coincide. I understand that. But you still need some consistency for it to be believable. You wouldn't have airplanes in a medieval setting. They are too modern. I'm not a painter and don't know much about painting. I don't know the processes involved in making acrylic paints and whether it would be possible in your setting. But the word acrylic seemed too modern to me. Someone who knows more about painting might not have a problem with it, or they might trip over it. Also you have to consider whether or not Larken would know the word. Is he familiar with different types of paint? Unless he is a painter himself, it seems unlikely.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Fri, 30 Mar 2012 14:14:50 -0500

I am referring to your question about false conspiracies. This is not a specified thing, it's essentially his paranoia about his mottling, which is later explained as a thing seen as "bad luck," essentially. So, I wasn't referring to your critic about his physical description. Also, this passage is meant to be written in third person omniscient. Moving over the shoulder of one character vs. being an omniscient all-knowing narrator is sometimes difficult to decipher, but that's the gist of what is going on. It is in third person. So yes, it will be occasionally removed from direct perspective. I know it is confusing since there are no other characters present in this passage to observe. As to the paint, yes, I'm aware that it was first made around 1946. I've worked with acrylics before. However, saying "oil" visages seems too vague for people who might not know more about the aristic realm, even if oil paint would be more appropriate to that time period. They also have large, glowing domes in this particular story made of a fantastic form of energy. So, I really don't think that making everything synch perfectly with "our time" references makes sense. Research it, yes, but not everything should need to coincide directly with earth's discoveries. It seems an incredibly minute nuance, and I doubt someone would stop reading it if they already had some interest in it because of one word. I suppose if I had specified that these were acrylics made with latex like more modern renditions it would be an issue. But it's hardly comparable with stating that an air plane suddenly flew over the sky. Though, you make a valid enough point, I shall consider another descriptor. Thank you again for your critique.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

GinoMolinari — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 03:09:51 -0500

Please don't take as gospel. Critique: I will start out by saying that the narration is extremely coherent and very detailed. I love your use of visual description to convey moments of feeling, this made it very easy to realize the nature of the relationship. I also enjoyed the premise, although I didn't see it coming right away, and it was woven into the prose with a style that doesn't tip the genre. Also the amount of information that was conveyed in the excerpt was substantial, but did not seem overbearing or unnecessarily dense. Great read so far, I'd love to read a copy more pages and see some more dialogue! Genre and age group: Easily readable for most people, I'm guessing Juvenile and up. I don't like labeling genres until I read the whole work, but I'll venture Fantasy. Shelve it or buy it: I'd buy it for sure so far. Keep going! Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): Solid A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

A Splashing Koi — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 19:38:45 -0500

Critique (try to be specific and as detailed as possible): First off, I really like the details. I can easily envision what's going on, such as the description of the men coming into the bar. However, try to be more "show, don't tell." Try describing the character's backstory more without going too much into exposition. I understand that someone's telling it as a story personally, but just a thought. Also, insert more commas here and there, and split up your sentences, since some of them are run-on. Your opening paragraph should be something like this: "I have often found myself unable in this life to elaborate upon my thoughts to anyone save a select few. That is why I have waited so far into my existence to tell the story I am about to tell. The exact portion of my experience that I am going to talk about now takes place about forty-three years ago and spans the time from my early childhood in the American West until my adventures in the American South. It will highlight my personal triumphs as well as my personal tragedies." And several sentences should be a bit like this: "I was born in 1868, the first son of an English aristocrat who had married a Russian seamstress." Genre and age group: I'm guessing Adventure, and around 12-15. Shelve it or buy it: Buy it. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

cidupeska — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 01:30:18 -0500

That My Child May Have Peace Chapter 1 - The Blood of my Forefathers Tallis’ grandfather had been a hero in the Korean War; though he often spoke of the experience with great hint of remorse in his voice. For his baby brother had followed him to the war, and was gravely injured clearing a booby trapped corpse from the battlefield. The poor boy suffered several days with his wounds before succumbing to the trauma. In his last days, as the old man lay on his death bed awaiting his final slumber, a question arose from the sorrowed tears of his concerned kin. Are you afraid to die? As he stared into the woeful eyes of his wife and twelve grown children, he raised his booming voice and spoke with stoic certainty. “I fear not for my soul, but for the souls of all my children, and grandchildren. For I have not long in this world, and I have no more time left in which to prepare them.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tallis reflected for a moment on his grandfather’s words as he stood haggard and beaten. Exasperated from all that had transpired, he found he could barely grasp the cold steel between his quivering fingers. He was stern in his resolve, yet he could not bring himself to pull the damn trigger. “Please,” a voice rang out through the ashen haze. “Don’t do this! You..Your wife…she…” Icy beads of sweat trickled through the fresh wound on his brow, drawing a thin line of crimson amid the soot on his face. Tallis pulled the shotgun closer to his chest, the shells chattering about the chamber. There was an air of uncertainty pouring through the thin cracks of her veneer. “I, don’t want to hear it!” Tallis spoke, thrusting the shotgun into the woman’s face. The sudden shift from his usual calm demeanor brought the women to her knees in disbelief. Her eyes welled with tears. Her hands shook with fright. “I trusted you. I only told you,” he spoke in a terse unyielding fervor. His glowing eyes shifted to the rugged man on the curb, “means one of you said something.” A bitter wind gnawed with leisure at every frayed nerve and taut vertebra in his neck. The sensation filled his bones with a deathly chill; goading him toward his morbid resolve. “ Wait!” ,the rugged man bellowed. “Will you just take a goddamn second and listen to what you’re saying?” The rugged man stretched his hand out toward him, “Just think about it! Can’t you see? You let them get to your head!” The sinew tightened deep within Tallis’ shoulder blades. Something resonated in the silence of the rugged man’s words. Tallis pressed the cold steel to his cheek, shifting the sights toward the rugged man. “You should be one to talk cowboy,” he said, shoving the barrel in his face. “You never gave a damn about any of this before. All ever you cared about was her.” Tallis nodded toward the woman, still on her knees. “ I can see it, you got that fire in your eyes.” he paused for a moment, shifting his sullen gaze to the sobbing woman, “you would do anything for her.” She looked him in his eyes tears streaming down her face. His shoulders dropped, and his fingers trembled, “I know that fire,” he utters into the vapor. “it never dies.” An unyielding breeze forces its way through the cracks of the buildings, past whining street signs and shivering leaves; singing an uneasy melody amid the cheerful banter of the birds. The tree trunks creaked and popped, begrudging the weight of the wind at their backs. Tallis’ shifted his gaze back to the rugged man, his eyes cold and vacant. A single tear hung on the brim of his eyelid. “I’m sorry,” his voice rattled. “But I just can’t leave this to chance.” He spoke in a whisper, raising the trembling shotgun to his shoulder, ”Not now. Not anymore.” Thunder clouds loom on the amber horizon of the crisp mourning azure, casting a shadow of foreboding over the frost bitten earth below. As the wind sings, the birds banter and the trees pop amid the uneasy silence of the dense morning fog, two ghostly thunderclaps reverberate through the asphalt corridors of the city. The world goes quiet for a moment. The smell of rain fills the air. Off to the east, the rolling thunder applauds with great elation; welcoming another beautiful day to the world.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 16:07:24 -0500

[quote=cidupeska] That My Child May Have Peace Is this your title? I like it, though I have no idea what the story is yet and how well it fits ;) Chapter 1 - The Blood of my Forefathers Using the word "my" made me think the the story was going to be written from the POV of someone 1st person. . . It was starnge when I read the next sentence Tallis’ grandfather had been a hero in the Korean War; though he often spoke of the experience with a great ~~hint~~ of remorse in his voice. For his baby brother had followed him to the war, and was gravely injured clearing a booby trapped corpse from the battlefield. The poor boy suffered several days with his wounds before succumbing to the trauma. [/quote] I'm not in love with the use of "great hint of remorse in his voice". Because a great hins is an oxymoron. But if you use it I suggest "a great hint of remorse" for grammar's sake. The beginning is a bit telly, and also though we are a product of our ancestors, I'm more interested to know about Talli than his grandfather, unless you mention how Tallis' grandfather having been a hero in the Korean War affected Tallis upbringing. For example, my grandfather was in the WWI, I remember very clearly sitting with him in the sofa talking about war when I was about five, and I have always been EXTREMLY anti-war. In your paragraph above I don't see the connection between Tallis' grandfather and Tallis. [quote=cidupeska] In his last days, as the old man lay on his death bed awaiting his final slumber, a question arose from the sorrowed tears of his concerned kin. Are you afraid to die? As he stared into the woeful eyes of his wife and twelve grown children, he raised his booming voice and spoke with stoic certainty. “I fear not for my soul, but for the souls of all my children, and grandchildren. For I have not long in this world, and I have no more time left in which to prepare them.” [/quote] A bit overwritten and therefore muddled. Think simple, even if you're going for literary fiction. You don't want to loose your reader because you are in love with words. [quote=cidupeska] Tallis reflected for a moment on his grandfather’s words as he stood haggard and beaten. Exasperated from all that had transpired, he found he could barely grasp the cold steel between his quivering fingers. He was stern in his resolve, yet he could not bring himself to pull the damn trigger. [/quote] Now here's something interesting. Your hook starts with "he could not bring himself to pull the damn trigger". I still find it overwritten though. I would suggest skipping the first paragraph and worki it in later. [quote=cidupeska] “Please,” a voice rang out through the ashen haze.? “Don’t do this! You..Your wife…she…” "A voice rang out" is impersonal. If Tallis is standing in front of her he probably knows it's a woman who rang out the plead. Icy beads of sweat trickled through the fresh wound on his brow, drawing a thin line of crimson amid the soot on his face. Tallis pulled the shotgun closer to his chest, the shells chattering about the chamber. There was an air of uncertainty pouring through the thin cracks of her veneer. You haven't introduced a she, so that makes little sence here. “I, don’t want to hear it!” Tallis ~~spoke~~ said, thrusting the shotgun into the woman’s face. The sudden shift from his usual calm demeanor brought the women to her knees in disbelief. Her eyes welled with tears. Her hands shook with fright. “I trusted you. I only told you,” he ~~spoke~~ said, speaking in a terse unyielding fervor. His glowing eyes shifted to the rugged man on the curb, “means one of you said something.” A bitter wind gnawed with leisure at every frayed nerve and taut vertebra in his neck. The sensation filled his bones with a deathly chill; goading him toward his morbid resolve. “ Wait!” , the rugged man bellowed. “Will you just take a goddamn second and listen to what you’re saying?” The ~~rugged~~ man stretched his hand out toward ~~him~~Tallis, “Just think about it! Can’t you see? You let them get to your head!” The sinew tightened deep within Tallis’ shoulder blades. Something resonated in the silence of the rugged man’s words. Overuse of the adjektiv rugged Tallis pressed the cold steel to his cheek, shifting the sights toward the ~~rugged~~ man. “You should be one to talk cowboy,” he said, shoving the barrel in his face. “You never gave a damn about any of this before. All ever you cared about was her.” Tallis nodded toward the woman, still on her knees. “ I can see it, you got that fire in your eyes.” hHe paused for a moment, shifting his sullen gaze to the sobbing woman, “you would do anything for her.” She looked him in his eyes tears streaming down her face. His shoulders dropped, and his fingers trembled. “I know that fire,” he uttersed into the vapor. “it never dies.” Watch your tenses An unyielding breeze forces its way through the cracks of the buildings, past whining street signs and shivering leaves; singing an uneasy melody amid the cheerful banter of the birds. The tree trunks creaked and popped, begrudging the weight of the wind at their backs. Tallis’ shifted his gaze back to the rugged man, his eyes cold and vacant. A single tear hung on the brim of his eyelid. “I’m sorry,” his voice rattled. “But I just can’t leave this to chance.” He spoke in a whisper, raising the trembling shotgun to his shoulder, ”Not now. Not anymore.” Thunder clouds loom on the amber horizon of the crisp mourning azure, casting a shadow of foreboding over the frost bitten earth below. As the wind sings, the birds banter and the trees pop amid the uneasy silence of the dense morning fog, two ghostly thunderclaps reverberate through the asphalt corridors of the city. The world goes quiet for a moment. The smell of rain fills the air. Off to the east, the rolling thunder applauds with great elation; welcoming another beautiful day to the world. [/quote] This whole last paragraph is in present tense, and you have used past mostly before. . . Critique You prose is a bit to dense and overwritten for my taste. I would suggest being a bit more careful with the adjektives, and focus somwhat more on the actuall story than the words. The grammar needs a bit of work; I'm not a grammar master, but I noted several problems in the excerp e.g. with missplaced commas, and switch of tense. I also think that the connection Tallis' grandfather--Tallis pointing a gun at a couple needs to be more clear. Some good things: Like the title(?). Some of your wording is fairly original, and I think if you make it more streamlined you'll be able to create interesting immages. Age group and genre I'm guessing youre going for literary fiction in the upper YA to adult scene. Buy/shelf Shelf.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Medelo — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 18:37:59 -0500

[quote=fni] I jumped at the sound of the shopkeeper’s bell clattering in the other room. It was nearly seven o’clock – one hour after closing time -- and no one had visited the shop since noon when the clouds had burst open over Lancaster, unleashing a lashing rain. Letting out a gust of air that puffed my cheeks and meant to calm my nerves, I looked down at the tweezers in my hand. The millimetre-sized screw had gone flying, but not too far. I spotted it right away between two spooks of the centre wheel in the wristwatch to which it belonged.[/quote] Letting out a gust of air that puffed my cheeks and meant to calm my nerves -- I had zero problems with the first paragraph, it was smooth and easy to read. But this one sentence slowed everything down and made me check myself. I get what the character is doing, it just could use some smoothing out. Perhaps, and this is just a suggestion, something like "I let out a gust of air that puffed my cheeks, meaning to calm my nerves." Also, spelling mistake -- I think it's 'spokes', not 'spooks'. [quote=fni] Good screw, I praised it and smiled. A man with husky voice called from the shop. “Hello? Is there anyone here?” His accent was impossible to place; perhaps a bit of Scottish. “Just a minute!” I discarded my latex gloves, and leaned back in the chair to peer out at my stray costumer. He was standing with his back towards me, looking at the alarm clocks in one of the glass displays, and I felt my lips stretch out in an incredulous smile.[/quote] I think it would read better if the comma at the end of "Good screw" was changed to a full-stop. Hmmm, I don't know much about the characters at this point, but from the main character guessing his accent, it's obvious she doesn't know him. The smile strikes me as something strange to do, just my personal opinion of course, because if I were startled first I wouldn't really be smiling at some guy who walked in out of nowhere. I'd be surprised, maybe, or curious. [quote=fni] The man was the rainstorm personified. His posture was drooping as if his shoulders were weighted down by rain; his clothes were dark as the sky, and his black hair ruffled as though the wind had rushed through it. Only the dripping wet umbrella – which looked as if it had been dipped in crude oil – told me that he was to be regarded as separate from the rain. [/quote] I don't think the first sentence was quite necessary for me because the descriptions that come after it are sufficient enough to get the point across in a much more beautiful way.The first sentence makes it seem a bit forced. [quote=fni] Well, hello there, dark strange. I tucked some loose strands of my brown hair behind my ear, and then, still with a smile on my lips, I walked out in the shop to greet him. The man heard me coming. He straightened his back, and turned away from the glass display. At the sight of his face, I stopped short and a feeling of ice to course through my vessels. The man had the most electric blue eyes I had ever seen; eyes that appeared almost fluorescent, and successfully misplaced under the dark hair that straggled in his forehead. He was pale and unkempt, had a Five o’clock shadow and dark circles under his eyes. And he wasn’t a stranger. But who was he? [/quote] First the character is startled, in the opening. Then she starts smiling and all of a sudden goes back to being startled -- it makes me question how consistent she's going to be. I think there may be other ways to show that she's a warm-hearted person. I like how you've described the stranger, but I'm not too much a fan of how at the end you've tried to make us understand that the main character has seen him before somewhere. It's confusing. Okay, a stranger walks in. No, wait! That's not a stranger! Perhaps he is, but I'm not sure! It kind of reads like that to me at the moment. [quote=fni] During a split second -- two oscillations of the balance wheel in my Omega -- I raked my memory for his name, but came up with nothing. “Hi,” he said, and behind the accent even the voice was his. I forced myself to act like a shopkeeper. “Hi. I— I’m sorry, we’re closed. . . I forgot to lock the door, but if there’s something quick I can help you with?” The man took a few steps towards me, and another shiver rushed from my heart to my crown and fingertips.[/quote] I like this part, it's smooth and builds intrigue. The shiver makes me wonder if she's actually frightened or just startled. [quote=fni] “I drove past and saw the light on,” he said. “My watch has stopped, and I had hoped you could take a look at it.” “Sure.” I fled in behind the cash register to put a barrier between me and the man. Unable to explain why he gave me cold creeps, I placed a finger on the button for the hold-up alarm, ready to trigger it if needed. “I just— Have we met before?” “No, I can’t imagine we have,” the man said, stepping up to the other side of the counter. But his eyes had narrowed as if he considered the possibility. “It’s my first time in Lancaster.” He smiled a warm smile that gave life to his weary appearance. The gesture had the effect of a tranquiliser, and my high-sprung nerves slackened immediately. I found myself feeling safe. Safe and snug. Who are you?[/quote] Whoa, we're changing emotions so quickly! Okay, now I know she's really scared of him, but realistically, unless the man has something magical about him that's partially controlling the main character, if she's that scared of him she won't be loosening up that easily. And she didn't just loosen up too, she went from "cold creeps" to "safe and snug". Too fast, in my opinion. [quote=fni] The man took out a timepiece from the inner pocket of his coat and handed it to me. It was a vintage pocket watch with a silvery case that was partly eroded where it had been scratched. “Classy,” I said, grabbed a form for contact information, and clicked a ballpoint pen open. “What’s your name, please?” “Er -- Tom,” he said. The name didn’t ring a bell. I told myself that I must be experiencing a lingering form of déjà vu. “And surname?” Tom rubbed his neck, and peered at the pocket watch on the counter. “How long time do you estimate it will take to mend it?” “Well, it depends on what’s wrong with it,” I said. “Could be anything from half an hour to a few days if I have to replace something. It’s a real chore to find parts for old watches like yours, but you’ve come to the right place -- my boss can make any part you’d need.” I smiled thinking of my manager, and good friend, Claus Truman. I had known him for fifteen years, and I owed him for more than the fact that I was a watchmaker.[/quote] Excellent. It's clear, the dialogue flows, I like it. [quote=fni]Half a year after I met Claus, he had surprised me by changing the name of his shop from Truman’s Clocks to Hannah’s and Claus’ Watchmaker’s Shop. I had smiled like a lotto winner when I saw my name written in huge golden letters. It was the first time I had smile since my fifth birthday when I caused a man’s death, and, in hindsight, I was told that my hazel brown eyes got their lustre back that day. Tom ran one hand through his ruffled hair, and his Adam’s apple bulged when he swallowed hard. “I may not stay in town for very long. Is there any possibility that you could have a look at it tomorrow? I’ll pay the double.” I listened to the salvo of raindrops striking the shop window, and looked yearningly at Tom’s umbrella. “Well, I can take a look at it right now, and tell you the verdict.” “That’s very kind of you. . .” He dragged the last word out. “Hannah.” “That’s very kind of you, Hannah, but I can come back tomorrow. I can’t ask that you to stay late because of me.” [/quote] I really like the questions you've raised by the end of this first part of the story. I can tell that these two characters have something very important to do with each other and I want to find out more. I think once the beginning parts are evened out a little bit, it'll be easier to get to the dialogue and the mystery. There are some minor grammatical mistakes, but I'm sure those can be quickly fixed in an edit, like "I'll pay the double" should be "I'll pay double". All in all, I really like the atmosphere you've built up by the end, even though I can't quite identify with Hannah since she changes emotions so much. Genre and age group: I'd say young adult? It feels steampunk-y to me with the clocks and the name "Claus", but maybe it's just a personal bias. Also, I smell some romance, but I'm not sure. Shelve it or buy it: Shelve at this point, but if the first half of it was as clear as the second half of it, I'd probably be tempted to buy it. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): B+ , maybe?

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

fni — Wed, 04 Apr 2012 00:59:52 -0500

Thank you so much Medelo for going through it so thoroughly. I'm glad you pointed at "Letting out a gust . . ." as being clonky, cause I felt it myself too ;) I wan't to keep the paragraph (rewritten) just to show that Hannah is a watchmaker. Her reactions to Tom is starnge even to herself, as I hope was clear, but I'll work on making it MORE clear so that it doesn't read as confusing and wavering. Thanks!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lycaenide — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 07:46:54 -0500

1. Critique I thought I'd write one for you, too, seeing as you wrote such a detailed critique yourself. I like the flow of your writing, you write well. I like some of the images you create - her padding along the rooftops, especially, with the smoke from the chimneys. Very nice. I also really like some of the words you use, like shimmy. Great word, really paints a picture of how she gets about. Also, that last line is a winner. It would work really well as the last line of the chapter, if it isn't already. Other than a few words here and there, which I go into below, I really like this. Great intro. (By the way, these are only my opinions and I am very picky about wording, so please don't be offended) [quote=Medelo] The cold sawed at her the instant she detangled herself from the huddle of warm bodies. Rane stood, flexing her stiff, bony limbs, and craned her head back to look at her friends, still blissfully asleep. The fire had long died sometime during the night, and the morning was blisteringly cold[/quote] I think the word 'gnawed' is typically used to describe cold, rather than 'sawed' but I like it. Also, I associate the word 'blistering' with heat, although that may just be me. [quote=Medelo] Today was the rat boy's special day; there was no way he wasn't so excited that he could still sleep. [/quote] It makes sense, but I agree with Celticsmc12, it is a little awkward. Perhaps: Today was the rat boy's special day, and there was no way he could sleep so soundly while being so excited. (or) Today was the rat boy's special day, and there was no doubt that his excitement was keeping him awake. [quote=Medelo] And she had to be at the stand at a very specific time. [/quote] At this point I say 'what stand?', so perhaps just say 'And there was somewhere she had to be; at a very specific time.' and then later on say: 'She reached her destination, a sorry excuse for a bakery, just in time.' [quote=Medelo] Rane landed with a soft thud on the slick, smooth cobblestones [/quote] If you land on something slick and smooth (even if you are very light) I don't believe you will make a 'small thud'. You could say she 'landed easily' or 'landed quietly'. But in my opinion, thuds are reserved for hard and dry situations - and slick suggests wet. 2: Genre/Age Group: Adventure, though could possibly veer off to be fantasy. Also could suit young adult or .. just adult? I would be happy reading this at the age I am now, or five years ago. 3: Shelve it/Buy it: Buy, it sounds great. 4: Score: B/A

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lycaenide — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 07:12:15 -0500

1. Critique Was this the entire first chapter or just the beginning? I ask only out of curiosity, as either way: I like it. Short chapters can work really well sometimes, especially as a flash forward of what is to come. You jump right into the scene, which I love, and you keep it mysterious enough that I want to read on, (but not too mysterious that I'm just confused). The person seems to be in a daze - she doesn't seem to recognise what she is wearing, and doesn't know where the blood is from - so my suggestion is to add some words in that accentuate this. [quote=Celticsmc12] The dress must have once been pretty, I noted as I stared down the sparkly sequins that fell from my ruined bodice onto a scorched tile. [/quote] Perhaps say "as I glanced down at the sparkly sequins", which implies a more casual look than 'stared', or was she staring at them because she was unable to look away or doesn't want to see the damage around her? If so, perhaps elaborate. [quote=Celticsmc12] The ash,crumbling white ash coated everything from the darkened mirror to my lips. The lingering smell of chemical fire mixed nauseatingly with the blood [/quote] She can see and smell, but can she use any of her other senses - what can she hear, feel and taste? The ash could be in her mouth, making it feel dry, or coating her lips making them cracked. The smell would possibly burn her nose and throat if it was that strong. If the blood was fresh it would be wet and warm, or if it was not, then dry, flaking or caked on, or perhaps congealing. The sequins might make a little noise as they fall onto the tile. Was the room still hot, or had it cooled down? Those are just some suggestions, just to make you feel like you are actually there, a little more. But it's a good, albeit short, piece of writing - makes me want to read more. 2. Genre/Age Group: Perhaps young adult, due to the use of sparkly sequins. There are few clues as to the genre, so in theory it could be anything. Although from the use of a chemical fire, which could be started by an arsonist, I'd say crime. 3. Shelve it/Buy It: It sounds interesting, and depending on what genre it turns out to be, I'd most likely buy it. 4. Score: B

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Medelo — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 17:29:23 -0500

Thanks for taking the extra time out to crit, I really appreciate that! :) I'm definitely not at all offended about the nitpicking, it helps me get better. I do agree with them too, I didn't really think about things like "thud" and the quality of the surface on which she lands, but it makes so much sense. I used the word 'blistering' with cold because I remember getting stuck out in winter once and past a certain point it did feel like blistering, heh. I might change it though to make it resonate better since you're right, it usually is used with heat instead of cold. Once again, thanks!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 22:37:37 -0500

Critique: [With All Due Respect] Instead of capitalizing all of the words, I would just “with all due respect,” put it in quotes. [“...a throaty laugh or a good pat on the pack for being so amusing.”] I think you meant back. [ The kind of thought that each individual had dwelled upon...] Switch that “dwelled” to “dwelt.” Good stuff: I liked the passage itself, and I like where it is going. I would personally just at a tad more detail here and there, flesh it out a bit, but other than that you have an intriguing story growing here.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

TheAllegorist476 — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 09:53:08 -0500

Critique: You seem to have an affinity for fragments. If this was not in third person that would be alright, and in fact I don't mind it when not used in excess, but to me it seems choppy when you use them frequently enough. For example: “Rundown and dirty.” “Someone with a gun.” “Calm, so calm. That was the way.” “Almost every time.” “Watched where he put it.” “Right on time.” “The Corp.” It's almost gimmicky in that it makes the reader feel like you're trying to hard to punctuate statements. As though you're trying to draw attention and drama into the writing though an almost dialogue-like prose. Which is another thing I'm wondering about, what prose exactly are you using? I'm assuming it's a third person limited, but there seemed points where it flipped almost into a second person: “Don't nobody read newspapers any more. Why bother? All you needed these days was a flash pad.” Unless this is actually a thought, and if it is, I would insert a “he thought” somewhere to make that slightly more clear. From what I understand the third person limited is a tricky business, but in the class I recently took it was essentially described as the narrator sitting on the shoulder of a specific individual and viewing the world as “tainted” by that individual's lens. It's still, however, the narrator “speaking,” as it were. So certain passages seem muddled: “Had Frankie ratted him out? If so, what was the nob waiting for? Backup maybe? Big man needs help to take down Eddie Franklin?” “Frankie coulda gone pro if not for that leg, or so he says.” These seem almost too directly personal to Eddie. Now, there is a way for this to work; if at the end of the novel you're planning on revealing that this entire thing is actually Eddie's autobiography, then yes, the extreme closeness to his character would make a bit more sense. But even then I feel that at points it either needs to be worked into a direct thought of the character, or perhaps you would consider changing your perspective to the first. I feel like that would suit you better. Good stuffs: I liked the description and the general “negative” view of the world, especially centered around Teri the waitress. You also did a good job capturing our attention regarding Eddie, already I can see he's evolving into a very interesting character. Just some polishing and shining and a firmer grasp of your perspective, and I can feel that this is going to be an intriguing story.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Thu, 05 Apr 2012 10:23:02 -0500

Thank you for your critique. In regards to the closeness of the POV, that is intentional. Even though it is written in 3rd person, I want it to have the closeness of 1st person. And you're correct that I'm trying to set a certain mood with the sentence fragments and the way the narrator speaks. The narrator IS Eddie, even if it's not 1st person or his autobiography. Everything is his thoughts and feelings. If you have a copy of "Elements of Fiction Writing - Characters & Viewpoint" by Orson Scott Card, check out chapter 17 (if you don't have it, I highly recommend it). He talks about 3rd person narrative and there is a section on levels of penetration. What I was trying to do in this chapter is what Card refers to as "deep penetration". I'm using this because I want Eddie to have a distinctive voice, different from my usual narrator.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lycaenide — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 15:27:18 -0500

No problem :) Come to think of it you're right about the word blistering. I just did a quick google search and it turns out your skin can actually blister if it comes into prolonged contact with extreme cold. It's up to you, if you feel it works, keep it. Either way, I liked your writing :)

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

lycaenide — Sat, 07 Apr 2012 15:32:12 -0500

I was unsure of which way to go with the 'with all due respect' line. I've seen something similar done with capitals and it really worked well, but perhaps not in this situation. Thank you for picking up on those. I wrote it in Microsoft Word, which isn't very helpful for pointing out mistakes like that, and somehow I must have missed them. I agree, it does need a little fleshing out. It's my first draft, so I kind of expected that. I just wanted an unbiased opinion, so thank you again.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 18:24:42 -0500

This is an interesting start to a story, but it is also quite a confusing one. It has potential but there is a lot of telling and not showing. Instead of just describing the room as you do at the beginning, could you make the narrator experiance these things and tell us about it? For example, 'I took a deep breath, inhaling the strong, pungent smell of fresh paint. I coughed as it assaulted my nostrils.' I would personally start with the knock at the door. The speechseems pretty good and dramatic, but it would be good if you could at least mention how they are saying it or what they are doing while they say it sometimes. You seem to be unsure what tense you're writing in, careful of that. In the last paragraph you are doing a lot of showing and not telling. All the information in that paragraph can be revealed earlier or later on when it's needed. Instead of that paragraph, I'd just put something like this earlier on: 'The first thing that caught my attention was the bright red headline that made it clear that the article originated in the city of Pollins, just east to the city we were in. It read:'. Good work, hope I helped.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

GGG100 — Sun, 15 Apr 2012 23:44:24 -0500

Thanks for the input :) I seem to be having trouble when it comes to showing and telling. Maybe it's just that I couldn't clearly grasp the difference between those two. And the tenses, yeah really need to work on that. I'll probably have to revise the first paragraph to give a more concise idea about what's going on. Again, thanks!

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 11:32:48 -0500

Glad I could help! Telling is when you just say something: The man had red hair. He was tall and thin. He was frustrated by his situation. Whereas showing is letting the actions do the talking: The man ran his long thin fingers through his red hair in frustation. Not the best example in the world but you get the idea. You'll get it, it's all about practice. Sorry, I critiqued it but I didn't answer the other questions I was supposed to. I'll just do that now. 2. Genre and age group: I'd guess it was a crime/mystery novel for teenagers. 3. Shelve it or buy it: I'm quite interested as to where this is going, and I'd like to know a bit more about the narrator and their job, so yeah I'd probably buy it. 4. Score (either letter A, B, C, D, or out of 100): I'd say C as there's still plenty of room for improvement as I mentioned in the earlier post but it is rather interesting.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 12:45:38 -0500

The man ran his long thin fingers through his red hair in frustation. Actually, this is still telling. The action doesn't show his frustration, the words "in frustration" tell us why he performed the action. John took a deep breath and counted to ten, but the desire to punch something, preferably the attendant's grinning face, remained strong. John's actions and thoughts show his frustration.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

jordan.williams42 — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 17:09:23 -0500

Yeah, sorry. I did say mine was a bad example, yours is better.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Iasila — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:20:49 -0500

From what I see, it has potential to be a very absorbing story. However, your use of commas is extremely erratic and often confusing. If I were to read it in a book shop as it is currently, I would be shocked and dismayed. In fact, I think I'd hurry home for a red pen, and damn defacement of property. Would you go through this section, fix the punctuation, and post again? But I must say that this paragraph is absolute gold: Pyotr wasn't the brute I had expected. He was a tall, thin military man, fifty or close to it. It was hard to tell. Sun damage had turned his skin into a leopard print of irregular freckles and bleached his hair white. His cold blue eyes held a predatory edge and he moved like a man acquainted with violence. The girl behind the grill watched impassively for a moment, drawing on her cigarette, before turning back to her magazine. This right here is page-turning stuff. Fix the commas and I think you've got it.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 14:55:22 -0500

No biggie. Just didn't want GGG100 to be confused.

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Banespawn — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 09:23:04 -0500

I liked the remembered conversation worked into the narrative, but I feel like you could tighten things up a bit. Do you want to make a contract with me? I think you could use something with a bit more punch here. Something more gritty, less formal. Who's the mark? perhaps. The room was dimly lit, the air warm and stale. Dirty grey light spilled in through the window, the shade half-drawn and hanging crooked. Knives gleamed on the unmade bed, a length of deep red fabric half pooling on the floor like a river of blood. A figure cut through the dark, barely more than a shadow itself, soundless and quick. It slid around the puddles of moonlight like a cat, clinging to the fringes of gloom. The light is mentioned 3 times. Maybe change the last sentence to: It slid through the shadows like a cat on the prowl. Knives gleamed on the unmade bed, a length of deep red fabric half pooling on the floor like a river of blood. The second part of this sentence doesn't fit with the first part. If the fabric is the bedsheets, then be more clear. Otherwise, consider making 2 sentences. A handgun on the bedside table, the shine worn away from use; its mate already slipped into a thigh-holster. The second was picked up and inspected quickly, the clip slipped out, checked and replaced. It found a home in a shoulder rig. I don't mind sentence fragments, but I don't think they quite work here. I think it would work better if you combined the first 2 sentences because it isn't entirely clear that the "second" is the one on the table. The figure moved on. Top drawer of the dresser, a kit was unearthed and drawn out. "kit" is kind of vague. Maybe you could replace it with something more specific. This is also passive. Consider rewriting. alcohol wipes, gauze, bandages, cold compresses and hot packs, structures and flask of bourbon What are structures? Did you mean sutures? The syringe was filled to the brim before the cap was replaced at [and] it, too, was tucked away. The scarf was last; the finishing touch; a flash of colour in the dark. Wrapped twice and knotted tightly, the fabric still managed to snap around toned calves. It hid all save the eyes, glinting with promise. If the figure is wrapping the scarf to hide its face, I don't get the "snap around toned calves" part. It moved with single-minded purpose; stride long and fast, utterly silent. I'm not sure about the repeated use of "it" to refer to this person. Maybe the figure is a woman and you are intentionally trying to hide that fact. That's probably also why you used so many fragments and passive voice. If that's the case, I would suggest finding some other non-gender way to refer to this person, a name or nickname perhaps, so you don't need to do literary gymnastics. Other than that, the biggest issue was the overuse of "to be". 14 times by my count. A lot of that has to do with using passive voice: The room was lit The knives were taken up The second was picked up a kit was unearthed The syringe was filled it, too, was tucked away and was swept into an inner pocket Give this person a name and make the writing more active. If the name is something non-gender specific, then it will do a much better job of hiding the gender than fragments and passive voice. It doesn't have to be the character's actual name. It could just be something other people call him/her, or even just something the narrator calls him/her. Maybe the character has a long scar on his/her cheek, so the narrator refers to him/her as scarface. Example: A red, angry scar broke the otherwise smooth skin of the figure's cheek. Scarface rummaged through the top drawer of the dresser...

Re: Prologue/First Chapter Critique

Iasila — Wed, 25 Apr 2012 15:51:21 -0500

Overall, you do a superb job of setting mood and tone. This confused me: you said the Tsira girl was freshly stranded due to a recent storm; shipwrecked, I assume. Yet you also imply that she has been working at the Establishment for some time. Which is it? There are also instances of sentences that use the same word twice: "-that seemed stunted in their growth, like trees never allowed to grow." "-his thick boots sliding unevenly on the uneven surface." This and several other awkward sentences can be remedied by simply saying less. Describe something once, and do it well; then you do not have to repeat essentially the same thing. The exception to that is stylistic repetition, which would suit your style very well. For example, this is your first impression: "Dismal gray smog surrounded a sprawling city of the same color, partially obscuring the clustered mess of short buildings that seemed stunted in their growth, like trees never allowed to grow." A possible revision would be this: "Dismal gray fog surrounded a dismal gray city. It wrapped around the sprawling mess of stunted gray buildings, obscuring them from the sun so a stray beam of light couldn't help them grow." Or something like that. Another thing: your setting is very harsh and tactile, juxtaposed with very big-brother-ish terminology like "the Establishment." To make that clearer, I suggest replacing boring words like "surface" and "structured," and replace them with more congruent words, like "sand" and "planned" or "carefully formed." Of course, your judgement would be better as to what suits. Lastly, the guards in this part of the city are very prominent. Who pays them and how much? Why? Is it particularly profitable, for the guards or the person who employs them? If people do manage to escape, is there really something better out there that tempts them?