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Thu Jun 27, 2013 7:19 am
thewriterinside says...



Here's a prologue from a short story I'm working on. Would you continue reading? All feedback is appreciated.




Prologue
“I’m not insane. I’m not. Go away”.
The doctors dressed in green smocks and masks poked and prodded me, stabbing needles into my arm and listening to my heart. It was like I was a bug under a microscope. They muttered words to each other, too quiet for me to hear. Everyone was in a panic. I was starting to get sleepy. One of the syringes must have had something to make me tired.
No.
What were they doing? I stared at the grey tiles above me, refusing to let the drugs take me under.
I tried counting to myself. One, two, three...stay awake. Four, five, six…don’t close your eyes. Seven, eight, nine...stay awake…stay awake…
My hair was a tangled mess around me as I lay in the hospital bed. How long had I been out? A needle was squished into my arm, an IV slowly dripping liquid into a tube. I was wearing a white hospital gown, and judging by the breeze, I wasn’t wearing any pants. My feet were freezing. I slowly sat up, silently removing the needle from my arm. I rubbed my feet. My hands were freezing too, so it didn’t help much. My whole body was freezing. I looked out the window; it was snowing like crazy.
Crazy.
“I’m not crazy.” I whispered to nobody in particular.
“You’re not.” A voice said from the doorway, as soft and gentle as velvet. My head snapped towards the voice immediately. A doctor was standing there, dressed in a green smock and mask like the rest of them.
“Go away.” I turned away from him. He was just like the rest of them. He was probably here to stab more needles into my arm.
“You’re not crazy.” He said to me. He strode to my bed, and I realized how huge he was. Tall, with big slabs of muscle up and down his arms, with a wide, strong chest and back. Even under the smock, I could tell he was built. His dark eyes held such warmth that I couldn’t look away. “What’s your name?”
“Bella.”
He held out his hand, and I refused. He insisted, and one look in his eyes told me that I should take it.
I did.
He smiled, and then effortlessly helped me from the hospital bed into a wheelchair.
“I’m tired.” I said suddenly.
“I know. It’s the medicine.” He nodded. I felt comforted immediately. He was so warm. He pushed me down the hall, and into the elevator.
“Where are we going, doctor?”
“Don’t worry.” He chuckled. I relaxed a little, settling back in the chair. He stopped momentarily to wrap a blanket around my shoulders. I smiled. Having a handsome doctor take care of me wouldn’t be so bad.
He pushed me down another hallway once the elevator opened, and then to another elevator. When the doors opened, we were on the roof of the mental hospital. Snow fell in flakes onto the blue blanket covering me, and I shivered.
“What?” I asked.
“Bella, I’m going to help you.” He said gently, kneeling in front of me.
I left my heart in
● Metropolis...●
  





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Mon Jul 01, 2013 1:19 pm
Dreamy says...



Off,course yes!!!
If any person raises his hand to strike down another on the ground of religion, I shall fight him till the last breath of my life, both as the head of the Government and from outside- Jawaharlal Nehru.
  





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Sat Jul 20, 2013 12:47 am
RebeccaZeno says...



I would recommend more details or something I can't exactly put my finger on. It just feels bland. BUT has potential. Just focus on something in the prologue and elaborate the crap out of it. But make it good elaborations, not "The room was poop brown and the tiles were diced. I was cold and the weather outside was frightful." Give it more juice!!
"Don't give up after you've put your effort into trying"
"If you love someone, put their name in a circle; because hearts can be broken, but circles never end." Karen Amanda Hooper, Grasping At Eternity
  





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Sun Jul 21, 2013 6:17 pm
StoneHeart says...



Okay, Rebecca is on the right track I think . . .

If you MUST have this as a prologue (and not a first chapter), then I advise you to expand on it a bit, and give some better hints as to what's going to make this story different.

I have a feeling there's going to be something different about the story, something original . . . but your hints to it are way to vague. Put in memories, flashbacks, thoughts . . . build on it. Give better hints -but don't give it away.

Try to be original . . .

But, you have a good style . . . good enough that I'd finish this piece, if it were completed.
For I who am poor have only my dreams
I spread my dreams under your feet . . .

. . . tread softly for you tread on my dreams.


We are masters of our silences, and slaves of our words
  








more fish is always superior to less fish
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