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Wed Jan 04, 2012 7:06 pm
Tigersprite says...



9/10

The hook is there, and strong. Your MC's cynicism works well as a descriptive tool, and apart from giving us a sense of place it also gives us a good insight into his character. Short, but it's already grabbed my interest; I might read through the rest of the chapter if I have the time.

~


He is a young man with a cold, piercing stare. He holds a dying cigarette in his left hand, and a worn, yellow-paged book in his right. His hair is combed straight back, his jacket is a thick, heavy black, and his socks are very mismatched. The elements of his nature are too old for his age, and he could be anything from twenty-five to fifty. He sits in a chair that should belong to his grandfather and comprises one of the three pieces of furniture in the room; the fan on the ceiling is one blade short of intact, and it wails as it moves. The candle standing on the pile of discarded books in the corner is constantly flickering in the artificial breeze; it provides the only light by which he can see as he struggles to read while looking quite elegant at the task. He is holding a cigarette that has almost died before it has been smoked and is trying to remember the name of his novel when there is a knock on the door.
"A superman ... is, on account of certain superior qualities inherent in him, exempted from the ordinary laws which govern men. He is not liable for anything he may do."
Nathan Leopold




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Wed Jan 04, 2012 8:07 pm
Skins says...



8/10

I'm very impressed because descriptive openings aren't my favourite kind but this has really caught my interest. And to catch Skinsy's interest... well, all I can do is applaud you, Taiga. I love how we immediately get to know this character in such a short space of time, your descriptions are interesting and there's a great hook at the end of the paragraph. I think I may know what this is from too. ;) Yes, Skinsy stalks you.

The only suggestion I'd give for improvement is to maybe make the scene feel a bit more suspenseful. There are a lot of longer sentences here and if you shorten them here and there, I think the ending could be more dramatic. Build the tension as the paragraph goes on and then, BAM. There's a knock at the door.

I do apologise for the essay of a reply.


* * * * *


Errr, it needs improvement so I'll try this one.


I used to hate tying my laces. It must've taken me at least two years to learn how to do it and even by the time I could do it, the knots were always loose and messy. I’d get so frustrated over it. It was a time when something so easy like wearing a pair of shoes correctly was my biggest worry, and when a simple smile or hug could make everything better. Make everything bad go away. I missed that: the days when sadness was defined as something as insignificant as the inability to a tie a knot.
Cat.




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Thu Jan 05, 2012 12:15 am
Twit says...



Hoohoo Skinsa!


I guess I like it. I mean, I do like it because it's an interesting way to begin and interesting is good, but... I don't know. It seems to lack something. I do like the connection made between the M/C's life and their laces... I don't like this line: I’d get so frustrated over it. When I was reading, that was the line that jolted.

Maybe it's the contractions I don't like. There's a sad-and-remembering tone in the writing, kinda formal, and the contractions and that line about being frustrated are very informal, which is why they don't fit. The tone doesn't fit with the actual words. I feel like it should be more formal, because the M/C seems sad, looking back at a time when they weren't sad, and that should have some gravitas.

...Does any of that make sense? >_<


----

I dreamed many dreams in the cage. This was my first dream:

I’m standing in the middle of a road. It’s night, the sky black-blue, and as dark as the inside of my mother’s womb. The streetlamps flicker vague orange shadows on the concrete and sometimes a car blares past, swerving to avoid me in the middle of the road, one foot on either side of the white line. The wind bites through my red hoodie and ruffles my fringe, carrying in its mouth the cold salty scent of the sea.
"Tv makes sense. It has logic, structure, rules, and likeable leading men. In life, we have this."


#TNT




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Thu Mar 01, 2012 11:55 pm
ThePostModIronicon says...



Twit wrote:I dreamed many dreams in the cage. This was my first dream:

I’m standing in the middle of a road. It’s night, the sky black-blue, and as dark as the inside of my mother’s womb. The streetlamps flicker vague orange shadows on the concrete and sometimes a car blares past, swerving to avoid me in the middle of the road, one foot on either side of the white line. The wind bites through my red hoodie and ruffles my fringe, carrying in its mouth the cold salty scent of the sea.


Oooh, I like this. It's dark and mysterious, and just vague enough to make me want to know what's going to happen next. Although, I personally think it would be smoother to replace "sometimes" with "occasionally".
Two questions, though. One: what exactly is a "fringe"? And two: Is the line about the mother's womb a simile, a reference to the "cage", or a hint to the character's super intelligence/power?

Nevertheless, here's the first paragraph to my latest novel, The 419

Sheryl Vaughn remembered nothing but the fog.
Well, she supposed that wasn’t entirely true. The brightly lit, throbbing blur that had once been the second half of a fantastic party still resonated somewhere in the back of her mind. She remembered driving home, and then past her home and-before she knew it-pulling onto Highway One and driving out of California. She couldn’t quite recall quite how the sunrise looked as it was shining across the waters of the pacific, but she knew she was entranced by it. She stopped somewhere to ask for directions that ended up with her getting lost. At some point there was something huge (A tree, perhaps), lurking at the end of a dirt path like a stone monolith.
And then there was the fog.




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Fri Mar 02, 2012 8:24 am
RainyDay1119 says...



That's very mysterious and interesting. My type of story, I think. And by the way, I absolutely love the first sentence!

Here's mine ;

If you think I’m going to warn you or something, you’re wrong. Yes, I know that a lot of kids in books warn the readers that if the book’s read, they will be in terrible danger and all that crap. But that’s dumb. I’ve never heard about a person who died a horrible death because he or she read a book. But also, I won’t feel that pity if the bad things in this book came after you. I don’t know you, duh.
Yeah, I know it doesn't lead anywhere, but whatever.




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Fri Mar 02, 2012 10:24 pm
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Blues says...



I'll give this an 7/10!

I actually really don't like this style of opening, but what really did it for me was how they addressed the reader about it. It was sort of cliché, but at the same time, it was like it was a twist on it. If that makes any sense. I credit that to the voice :P Something about it...

Oh, never mind about what I just said. That made no sense. At all.

*

If you could give a piece of advice to an unborn kid about life, what would it be?

“Concentrate in school”?

“Mum and Dad
always know best”?

“Take life easy?”

If it was me, it would be “Think before you speak”. No, forget that. It’d be “keep your trap shut at all times”. No, not even that. “Super glue your mouth at first opportunity”. Or at least, that’s what I’d have said to myself.

Because, if it weren’t for me, all those people wouldn’t have disappeared. They wouldn’t have gotten–oh God, I can’t even bring myself to say it.




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Fri Mar 30, 2012 2:52 pm
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SparkToFlame says...



I love it Jazzy! I would defiantly keep reading. It's one of those stories that pulls you in with light humor.

Evan bent down over his papers, reading from a text book that lay open to the 345th page. He was scribbling hard and fast, His eyes flying between the notebook and the text-book. She walked up behind him, her heart beating faster than it ever had before. Evan didn’t hear her faltering footsteps, muffled by the thick green carpet. She gripped the knife in her hand, tighter than she had ever held anything in her life. Tears were streaming down her face and into her long brown hair. She lifted her arms and stabbed down, piercing a wound in his back.

Blood spurted, falling thickly onto the carpet below, staining it crimson. His body was seized with convolutions, he leaned back until her caught sight of her face, tear stained, holding the knife above her head, preparing to stab his venerable neck. The blood flowed, streaming in little rivers across the floor, and pooling at the edges of the carpet. His face paled, and then he fell, his hands falling to his sides, lifeless and unmoving. She pushed his head over, flipping him to his other cheek and bent down, kissing his still warm lips. “Forgive me Evan,” she whispered, and then she walked away, her black stilettos splattered with warm scarlet blood.
I know history. There are many names in history
but none of them are ours.


-Richard Siken


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Sat Mar 31, 2012 6:12 pm
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tgirly says...



Wow, definetly gets started right away. I don't see the importance of him being open to page 345, though. This is all I have so far:

AN402, also known as AnN, crouched hidden in the mud, her heart beating rapidly. In front of her, WolF, or WF893, crouched behind an overturned newsstand. He motioned for her to move up. Glancing around one last time, AnN ran the short distance to WolF’s hiding place, her gun jostling on her back. WolF handed her his water container.
“Thanks,” AnN whispered, then ducked as a bomb went off not far from them. Trampled newspapers blew past them from the explosion, but WolF and AnN were unharmed. AnN took a quick swig of water, then handed the container back to WolF.
"Writers aren't exactly people... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person."
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Mon Apr 30, 2012 1:49 am
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BelarusBirdy says...



I love it Tally! You're so talented, I love the idea. It makes me think they're hiding from something or running from it, and I wonder what's happened to make it a war scene...
Okay, here's mine:

The lights flickered for a moment as televisions all over the world switched on. They stabilized quickly, causing 71305 to breathe a quick sigh of relief. She was bent over a few dusty old notebook pages she'd found behind the houses of the Named, scrawling something in tiny, pinched writing. Only a tiny bit of her mind was focused on the Naming, because the chances were slim that she would be picked and her frantic fourteen-year-old mind was too busy for the stupid ceremony.
She wondered what kind of person would buy her stories once she'd secured her spot in the Black Arts market. Would it be one of the Named, too lazy to come up with something of their own but not willing to pay for the abilities of one of the more talented merchants?
There was a vague sense of alarm building behind her eyes; she blinked rapidly three times and her gaze fell on the screen. The announcer was staring at the screen behind him intently, wondering who the random name generator would select of the honor of being named. Whoever it was would be allowed to follow their dreams, allowed to succeed and live like royalty.
The announcer yelled the number on the screen: "71305!"
"No, God, no!" she screeched. The pain behind her eyes intensified.
A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes. I screamed aloud as it tore through them and now it's left me blind.
Florence and the Machine, Cosmic Love




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Wed Jun 06, 2012 7:30 am
tgirly says...



10/10 I love how the main character has recieved something seemingly good, but is distressed about it. Awesomeness.

Ylla and Whita were known for being odd. Instead of living near the ground of the near-empty city of Basamortua, they lived on the fifth floor of a rather large and crumbling building. The two kept to themselves, rarely saying more than a word. When people in the city saw one ash-blonde, curly mass of hair, they knew the other could not be far off. Strange oddities seemed to always follow in the sisters’ wake. Radishes stacked neatly would collapse. Hats were blown off heads with seemingly no wind to buoy them. Some swore they’d been healed when Whita- or was it Ylla? - had brushed their hand. Some thought they were angels, others thought they were from the other end of the spectrum.

My sister says it's a bit Dr. Seuss-ish, which is discouraging and, so early in the work, I'm not sure I even want to continue it even anymore, so thoughts would be much appreciated. Quit or continue?
"Writers aren't exactly people... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person."
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Wed Jun 06, 2012 10:50 am
noninjaspresent says...



7/10
Strange but interesting. It seems like the kind of thing that would evolve into a high-fantasy novel.

__________

“This is for Illiana!” shouted a male voice behind me. Two points of pressure, on the backs of my shoulders, then the icy wind rushing across my body as the crisp blue ascended towards me. I squeezed my eyes shut as tears were forced from their corners. I couldn’t face this with my eyes open - I wasn’t brave enough to have that image imprinted into my very last moments. I knew the pain would come, but without seeing the world around me, I could just maybe imagine for a few moments that it wasn’t happening, that I was somewhere else, somewhere better.
Noni does Napo
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"Any change, even a change for the better, is always accompanied by drawbacks and discomforts." - Arnold Bennet

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Thu Jun 07, 2012 4:43 am
tgirly says...



8/10. It left me with a lot of questions; one of which is how can the story continue if our narrator just got killed? I wish the voice was described as something other than male, though I don't know what.

The people of Basamortua lived in what used to be a city in Egypt called Damietta. There were many things the people of Basamortua did not know. They didn’t know they lived in a city once called Damietta, Egypt. They didn’t know how to use the devices the ancients called, ‘elevators,’ ‘phones,’ and ‘cars’. They didn’t know how the information of some much was lost. They didn’t know how large the world was. They didn’t know if the earth was populated beyond the Great Waters, or if anyone lived up the Great River that ran through their city. They didn’t know what the three blurs spotted on the horizon in the morning were. And they won’t know what to call the dark spheres that will cause so much devastation this evening.
"Writers aren't exactly people... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald




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Fri Jun 22, 2012 5:06 am
tgirly says...



3/10. You might thinks that's cruel, but it's my own work.
I'm not really sure what I want to do with this. It's very sarcastic.

He was teetering at the edge of being and he knew it. He had to be a boy, but a man; just old enough for people to stop asking what he wanted to be when grown, but not old enough to be taken seriously if he attempted to be anything. He was expected to be responsible for his actions, yet not old enough to truly act. He was supposed to be carefree and naive but mature and careful. He was known to be rude, juvenile, and self-absorbed before he even said a word. He was one of the most feared, untrustworthy, and hairy creatures known to man: the teenager.
"Writers aren't exactly people... they're a whole bunch of people trying to be one person."
-F. Scott Fitzgerald




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Fri Jun 22, 2012 1:25 pm
KatKage says...



5/10 I would read on ^^ although does it really take a paragraph to describe that he's a teen? But I guess it really has to do with what the book is about ^^ If it's a fantacy about fighting dragons, then it's not a very good begining for the story. If it's a realistic fiction about a kid finding his way in life, especially about growing up, It's perfect ^^

ok, here's mine;

~You know your parents really want you out of the house when they have to drug your ice-cream, drive you 12.3 miles away from civilization at 12:46 in the morning, and then dump you with some stranger who owed them. Touché, mis padres.
But they did this because they love me, I understand that. Ha, I know what you're thinking; 'what kind of parents drug their own kid for thier own good?!'
My reply is simple. What would you do if your child was going to be killed? Your prescious, unique, but stubborn daughter who was too unique and stubborn for her own good? Wouldn't you do everything in your power to save her?
You see, I always knew three things ever since I was small.
1) I was diffrent
2) My parents would protect me to their dying breath
3) The Society doesn't like 'diffrent'.
So, ya. I get it. My one regret though, is that I never got to say goodbye to my little sister.
Well, I bet you're real curious about who I am and what really happen, so I'll start in the middle.
It was the eve of my sixteeth birthday, and like every other special occasion, my parents took me to the ice-cream shop.~
I am a Leaf on the Wind,
Watch me Soar
~
Kyrie Eleison down the road that I must travel,
Kyrie Eleison through darkness of the night




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Mon Jul 23, 2012 11:20 pm
SidereaAquila says...



7/10 This is definitely engaging. Love the first part--its abruptness, combined with how ridiculous it sounds, makes it pretty funny. As for the rest--it certainly leaves me wondering how the narrator is different, what importance her sister has to her, and what's up with the ice cream. I found it slightly annoying when the narrator spoke for the reader; claiming to know what the reader is thinking seemed a little arrogant to me. Otherwise, nice job!


(This is technically the first paragraph from my second narrator, but the one for my first narrator isn't actually a paragraph.)

"Woohoo!" I shouted into the wind. "Yes!" I spread my arms out, the strong gusts of sea wind sweeping my coat back. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. The ocean had its own special smell--not like a lake; lakes smelled like fish, but this was different. The ocean smelled...clean, it smelled like clean water, and nothing else. I lived for this--pulling out of the harbor in a brand-new ship, with nothing ahead but open ocean. Complete freedom, a whole world of possibilities.
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