YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD WRITER, POMP!!! 
that was beautiful... The descriptions and everything, wow.
~*~
Bangcracker
Rule Number One: Caustics always do things in threes.
*
The cold had a serpentine quality to it that night.
It slid through the streets, its fluid, cursive movements a bane to all those unlucky enough to be outside. It is a strange observation, really, that no matter how hard the wind blew, it could not succeed in toppling the houses over. As it was, brick and glass seemed to huddle together on the edge of the streets. One could almost hear them moan.
Dolls against the pavement ... that was what the people were like tonight. Garbed in warm clothes—furs, wind-breakers, jackets in bright colours—they slid and skidded over the sleet. Shivering. Shivering like dancing skeletons. One by one, they disappeared into their houses. The sun dipped over the horizon, a galleon that sent colours and colours and colours splaying across the snow.
A man was going to be murdered that night. There would be blood. There would be pain. There would be screaming. The street did not know of this, in its chilly stupor, and neither did its inhabitants. But I choose to divulge this fact right now, so you shall not be surprised. Don't worry: there shall be plenty to be surprised about later. But for now, I choose to coax you into the story instead of glueing you to your seat, or grabbing you roughly by the collar. Blackmail is not an option either. Roughness has never been my style, apart from in battle, and for now I only ask of you this one, tiny favour:
To read on.
╛WARNING ONE
A crow squawked, somewhere in the distance, being pushed along by the wind as if being punished for its daring—a flash of feathery black against the grey skies. In the stark, pale silence, there were no voices. A solitary figure traipsed and tripped over the sleet on the road: a man who was either immensely brave, immensely hopeful, or just immensely stupid to be braving the harsh weather.
His name was Thomas Heaney, and you would do well to remember that, for he is one of our first characters in the story, and he is one of those poor souls whose lives end on tragic, hang-nail notes. I beseech you to not get attached to him. Developing attachments is always a dangerous thing, both for the reader and the writer. It is especially dangerous when said characters must undergo suffering, but suffering will always be undergone no matter what, and experiences experienced. Heaney would probably choose to debate the matter, but sadly, he has no say in the running of fate.
He was having a very bad day to begin with anyway.
‘Stupid wind,’ he muttered, hands digging deep into his pockets. ‘Stupid wind and stupid gust. Stupid cold.’
It appears as though Heaney also held a fondness for the word: “stupid.”
The old odd-job man sighed, eyes passing swiftly over the trees. Skeletal structures draped in lacy, white frost, their tapered fingers tapped against the walls of the houses. It was like a graveyard, Heaney thought. The houses looked like tombstones. Doors locked, shutters closed. The cold rapped mournfully against their windows, begging to be let in.
‘Seems it’s only me that’s foolish ‘nough to be out here tonight,’ Heaney said softly. The streets echoed with the sound of the bitter wind whistling. The abandoned pub too, at the edge of the colony, made it seem like a ghost-town. Yet Heaney wandered around, seemingly aimless, feet thump-thumping against the ground. He needed to find work. He needed to earn money. He needed to get home with a couple of pounds in his pockets. A man with a mantra: that was what he was. He grumbled about the cold as he walked, plunging his hands in his coat pockets as deep as they would go.
‘S’ all because of that dratted global warming,’ he said dully. ‘Though what’s so warm about it, I don’t really know.’ He kicked at the snow, frowning, counting his breaths as they rose in smoky puffs before him.
‘Broken pipes, clogged drains, shattered tiles or a hole in the ceiling!’ he called—or muttered, rather—as he shuffled along the sidewalk, head bent low against the cold. ‘Will fix anything but broken bones and broken homes!’ On a normal day, Heaney thought wistfully, he'd be smiling a crooked smile as he sang his song. A man by the Westside--Heaney suspected he was a poet--had told him once that his face was like a weathered tree-trunk in the middle of August, but with hope shining past the wear and tear of a life that has been thoroughly lived in.
'You look like you have nothing but good days,' the man had said, crushing a cigarette beneath the sole of his boot. 'Nothing but good days.'
Now, though, Heaney couldn't help but think bitterly of how poets these days needed to visit the optician more often. He sighed heavily. His wife and kids would be growing worried—and he hated to return to them empty-handed—but night was approaching fast and it was clear to him that he wouldn’t be finding any work tonight.
‘Time to be going home,’ he muttered to himself, flexing his ungloved fingers in a futile attempt to get rid of the stiffness.
As he turned around to make his way back down the street, Heaney saw a tall, striking-looking figure headed his way. The man was walking stiffly, almost as if his arms had been pinned to his sides, and his hands were deep in his pockets. He was wearing a black trench-coat—it stood out starkly against the snow—and his dark hair had been swept up by the wind. His gaze was even and calculating and his eyes were a piercing blue. A flash of recognition cartwheeled through Heaney’s consciousness, and he realized that he had seen this person before.
It was the Poet-man.
╟ WARNING TWO
Heaney scrunched his face up at the memory of him, that of his pale face and searching gaze, looking out at him through one of the windows of number twenty one. The expression he wore was almost curious, although he disappeared into the shadows as soon as he noticed Heaney looking at him. He'd met the man again as he was painting Mrs Smith's fence, when he'd strolled up to him casually and made small talk, as well as the poetic statement that had stuck in Heaney's mind. His face was not the kind you could forget easily either, Heaney thought, because while it was unblemished and as white as the snow that huddled up by the fences, it was marred by pain—the raw kind that is obvious to even the most ignorant of men. Heaney had taken to calling the man Poet-man in his head, and nodded at him politely as he passed.
‘Bit taters this evening, ain’t it, sir?’ he said.
Poet-man stopped in his tracks, and stared at Heaney, as though surprised that the odd-job man had spoken to him—no, that he remembered him. His expression was inscrutable, and snow flaked in fluffy heaps on his shoulders. He was as cold and detached as the weather, Heaney couldn’t help thinking, which was strange, considering he'd been ... not friendly exactly, but not unkind either ... to Heaney two months ago. His spirits fell. The people here generally treated him like dirt, and he didn't see why the Poet-man shouldn't do the same. Still, he took advantage of this man’s silence to say, ‘Anythin’ you need fixing today, sir?’
‘No,’ Poet-man said abruptly—rudely, Heaney thought. 'But I need you to tell me—have you by any chance seen a woman come by this way? She’s pale, tall, and was probably wearing clothing that doesn’t look at all warm enough for this weather. A couple of men may have been with her, too. And they’d have probably headed for there, the house with the griffin on the lawn.’ He was speaking hastily now, the words tripping off his lips, and he nodded at the large, palatial house at the end of the street.
Heaney turned his head slightly until he could see the glistening white address plate, black letters standing out boldly against its surface. Number 21. It was by far the most magnificent looking of all the houses he had seen in the area so far, and also the most mysterious looking. He squinted at the house now, trying to see past the snow. The wrought-iron gates were shut and the statue of a Griffin was just visible through the bars, standing proudly on the front lawn like a guard. A pretty eccentric lawn ornament for the new millennium. Heaney had thought people would prefer garden gnomes. Poet-man cleared his throat expectantly, and Heaney realised that he’d spaced out, completely forgetting to answer his question.
‘No, sir,’ Heaney said, ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’ And it was perfectly true. He had arrived at this street almost an hour ago, and had only seen two people outside so far: the man who lived at number sixteen (and who had run into his house like he was being chased by frostbite demons), and the blue-eyed man who stood before him now. His face had fallen upon hearing Heaney’s response, and his eyes darkened considerably. So Heaney asked,
‘Why? Didja have a meeting with them or somethin‘’?
Poet-man laughed hollowly. ‘Meeting? You could call it that. Except that these people don’t exactly have an appointment.’ He had muttered that last bit underneath his breath, and Heaney had had to strain his ears to catch it.
Heaney nodded, not exactly understanding what the man meant by that. ‘Good luck with tha‘, then, sir. I’d best be on my way.’ And he made his way down the street again. The other man hadn’t even bothered to deign him with a reply and he just stood there, motionless, staring at the large house at the end of the street.
‘There will be three warnings. We do not deal lightly.’
Poet-man’s voice sounded robotic, wired. He spoke clearly but he still hadn’t turned around. Since there was no one else there, Heaney looked back over his shoulder and said, ‘Yessir, you talking to me?’
‘No,’ said the man—confusedly, it seemed. ‘But— if I am, then … do me a favour,’ he said suddenly. ‘When you hear a loud sound—a loud sound, you got me?—don’t run to the police. The neighbours will hear and they’re so paranoid they’d dial 999 even if a frog croaked from underneath their staircase. An ambulance will arrive, the West Midlands police. People will gather round and there’ll be confusion, but don’t leave. And when you’re questioned, tell them it was a drunk with a rifle, but you couldn’t see his face. Understood?’ He had turned around now, and his eyes were blazing fiercely. Heaney was pretty sure now that the Poet-man was crazy. He was talking absolute rubbish.
Back away, Heaney, he told himself. Back away slowly.
He didn’t voice his uncertain thoughts out loud, though, and said instead, ‘OK.’
‘Good,’ Poet-man said, apparently satisfied. ‘And if anyone asks, you were only hired today, and were supposed to start work tomorrow. I met you outside; you didn’t come in. My name is Bernard Mason, and I’m a doctor. I live at number twenty-one. What will you tell them?’ he demanded, crisp and business-like again.
‘Yer a doctor, sir, Bernard Mason, livin‘ at number twenty-one. You hired me today, I don’t know you well, hadn’t started work yet. It was a—a drunk but I couldn’t see his face.’ Heaney was trying hard now not to mix up the facts.
‘Good, good,’ Poet-man—Bernard Mason—repeated distractedly. ‘What was your name again?’
It was the tip of Heaney’s tongue to respond with a: You never asked me my name in the first place, but just then Mason pulled a wallet from his pocket and quickly handed him a sheaf of fifty pound notes. Heaney’s eyes almost popped out of his eyes as he took it, and he rubbed the paper-money between his thumb and index-finger as though making sure it was real. Perhaps if he had been less distracted by the green sheaf of paper he now clutched in his hands, he would have taken a better look at Mason’s hands. But he didn’t see the way Mason gingerly put his hands back in his pockets, or that this was the first time he had actually taken his hands out of his pockets at all! His fingertips were red and burnt, and there was a red tattoo of a sun on his wrist. Heaney held a fifty pound note up at arm’s length, and then brought it closer. Satisfied that the money was real, he smiled widely.
‘The name’s Brian Heaney, sir,’ Heaney said, his respect for the man having gone up by several notches. ‘And—and I won’t let you down either, sir.’
Bernard Mason smiled wryly.
‘The greatest forms of bravery are often insane,’ he said. Then he turned and walked towards the large house, leaving Heaney struggling to comprehend the meaning behind his strange words. He watched him go; his figure getting smaller until he was a black puppet-figure down the long street, standing in front of the wrought-iron gates and waiting—but for what? Heaney wondered, frowning slightly; he stood, motionless, clutching at his money but not taking his eyes off the man.
Several seconds passed by, and Bernard Mason just stood there. He raised his fingers to his temples and—Heaney could have sworn he’d seen it happened—his eyes flashed gold, but only for a second. He quickly lowered his hand, face scrunched up in pain. Heaney couldn’t make out the expression he wore, but if he could’ve taken a stab at it, he’d have said it was something between fear and submission. He watched as, slowly, Mason placed his hand on the padlocked gates and pulled out a ring of keys. He had barely opened the gates and taken a step past them that it happened.
A loud crack ripped through the air like the sound of thunder, splaying the skies apart. Heaney could only watch, open-mouthed, as Bernard Mason fell.
~End of Part One~
YOU'RE SUCH A GOOD WRITER, POMP!!! that was beautiful... The descriptions and everything, wow.
I've finally made it! Heyo, Pomp ~
Well. This is difficult with what you have here and aaaall those other review below here, but if you don't mind, I'll say what I noticed, even if these things were mentioned below or not (and geeze are these tiny things.)
There are so many things I could gush over, because everyone knows your writing is fantastic and almost everything I've got is nit-picky. But some things I really like are your descriptions. I can definitely see that poetic imagery in there, and well, that's just your style. It was really nice and full and for the most part, I could get a really clear image in my head.
That being said, there were some parts which felt too loaded. The focus seemed to drift around a lot, and it created a mysterious mood a lot of the time, but there were some details that were dragged out a little too much, so they turned dull. Such as mentioning how freezing it was over and over. I can understand it being your style if writing, but maybe tone is down just a tad in some spots?
Other spots seemed to jump all over the place (or maybe I'm just too oblivious to see the relation, since that's happened before).
The abandoned pub too, at the edge of the colony, made it seem like a ghost-town.
Oh my gosh Pomp. That was stunning. That was absolutely amazing. I'm in love. <3
I'm not going to review this because enough people have, but I just adore this. When I got a few paragraphs in, I knew it was a winner. What else to expect, coming from you? 
The whole thing was so mysterious and the sense of pressure as the detail and suspense grew...It's beautiful. You are a master.
I'll shut up now, and keep reading. XP
~Night
hey, this was a great story so far but I got only a few issues:
1> "Dolls against the pavement ... that was what the people were like tonight."Maybe these two should be switched like "The people outside tonight were like dolls against the pavement."
2> Take the first "Shivering." out.
3> You said "as if being punished for its daring" but what daring?
Other then those few things I really liked this. <3<
Hi there! Noelle here to review as requested
The cold had a serpentine quality to it that night. Snakelike. Shifty.
Dolls against the pavement. That was what the people were like tonight.
It is wise to
at least, not if we were to judge
The street did not know of this,
he said, fiddling with the sparse threads of his scarf.
Heloha! To start of, I'd say that you have done a wonderful job of writing this out. You are a great author! 
I like how the Poet-man doesn't directly tell Mr. Heaney that he is going to be shot. The way you phrased it really adds a lot to the new mystery.
I love how you thrown in a connection between the sun (gold eyes and burnt hands beside the tatoo) and Mr. Mason. It leaves us the readers curious. Good job!
Yes, it seems that we are often blinded of the suffering of others by our own greed. I definitely agree with that bit.
I really like how you introduced us to Mr. Heaney, too! Brilliant!
Overall, I thoroughly enjoyed this part even if it is just the beginning! Keep brain-storming!
(Storm is my gamer name. It's a pun. Laugh now. Jk I'm not funny)
-AKA out-
Hey Pompy!
Whoa, that was an amazing read. It was wonderful, fantastic and I am left loving every single word you wrote. Really. I am not just trying to inflate your ego because it was a great read I think you have such an amazing style and you use the language so well. I am not usually a fan of books that start with building up the setting but I think you handled it well and it was still interesting. The beginning was intriguing and coaxed me right in. And the introduction was a clever way of helping do so
I wonder, how did he get to know the Poet-man before if he never worked on the house? Did he meet him on the street or so? I was just a little confused. So, it would be nice to see it a bit more. But other than that - nothing more to ask for. It was brilliant
Deanie x
I'mma go read more!
Timmy here!
So you say this is a little bit different than your old version? I still remember your old version quite clearly (how can you forget a piece by you, anyway?), but the difference between the two is so staggering. It just so much different than your old version. And in a good way. Not only has your style improved and changed dramatically, but your voice is so much... changed in this, its almost like an entirely different story. You are telling the story to us, and it's not just a narration of the happenings of this guy, Brian, but the narrator seems to have a personality, as well. I just imagine you telling me this story, and it's like a person saying it. Just so perfect.
I don't know what to nitpick. At first, I was gonna say: Okay, okay. Enough with the descriptions. Move on, already. But when I finished... I decided they were fine, because they were all leading up to something. Something greater. It was like you were feeding us little bits of a sandwich before we get to the meat inside. One thing you may want to keep an eye on, though: The description. Yes, I know it may sound a bit hypocritical and defying what I just said, but think about it: I have read this before, I knew what your story was about and whatnot. I knew it was going to be awesome and the pace was going to pick up. But - your new reader would not. They would open this page and see lines of description all seeming to lead up to something... and then nothing happening, and it moving off like a freight train. Starting slowly, and then picking up speed so very slowly - taking a while before it gets up to speed. You need to start off like a sports car. Fast - just zoom! us in there, at the first bit, and give us something to chew on. The appetizer, if you will. Something we can enjoy... and then you can describe the scene as we go. But just remember that as a new reader, it needs to be exciting right off the bat. Beautiful descriptions are lovely - a must for your book, and your style. It's you - but when I read through this, I was intrigued, but not really sucked into it until I got to the part with Brian Heaney. And then things began to pick up and really suck me into the story.
So yesh. A sandwich. The strangest example I have given today, but I think it works. Hopefully.
Reading it again, I think I exaggerated just a little bit. So maybe just mix up the description in the beginning with some action. Something exciting to be thrown in as well. I am really scrambling for some critique here. This piece, quite honestly, is too perfect to nitpick.
Really, I don't know what else to say... The general story line seems so familiar, and exactly the same as I remember - so nothing new there. It was very curious and puzzling when Bernard Mason fell. He. just. fell. He must have been expecting it, or something. I mean, why else would he have told Brian to not get all excited when he heard a loud noise? It was played perfectly, and even though this was done in omniscient POV (which is what you seem to do a lot now, and its just beautiful), I could still see the characters and their emotions. So everything is good there.
The neighbours will hear and they’re so paranoid they’d dial 911 even if a frog croaked from underneath their staircase
Happy review day! And thank you for leaving me with nothing to say. xD. Hey that rhymes! alright, I will stop messing around. I see you wanted comment on the character and pace of the chapter. Well, is about the only thing I can say anyways.
So, the start. I've heard somewhere one of the deadly sins of writing a novel is to never start with the weather.
Now I can flash this in their faces and say, 'go stick that rule elsewhere because look at this descriptions, is perfect.' Ok, so maybe I'm a bit biased because I adore describing the weather as well and I really love how you've described the winter wind here. All except the first line. I don't know if a symphony of icicles is the right metaphor here, icicles usually clink together especially coupled with the word symphony. So the wind is chiming? O_OThe wind passed by like a symphony of icicles, drifting lazily past the chessboard houses of Rainside Street. Anyone who had been brave enough to venture outside was now forced to retreat to the warmth and comfort of home, as the frost nipped at their exposed faces and stung at their skin.
Heaney saw Heaney trudging along the sidewalk? Is Heaney now from another dimension watching himself! How interesting! Ok, you get what I mean, it was probably a typo.Today, like every other day, saw Heaney trudging along on the sidewalk; he kicked at the snow occasionally, and called:
Heya Dory! I am so late but I am still here anyways...
First off: Bangcracker I love the chapter title choice!
I love your descriptions so much... so in detail and it leaves nothing but the most for the reader to imagine. I could just picture Brian walking up and down those streets, chanting the same words and hoping for someone to take him on...
Although at the beginning I wasn't immediately sucked into the story. You did manage to create a nice picture of the setting and then slowly move us in closer to Brian and him as a character, before getting us to meet Bernard Mason. I liked it to some effect, but as I was reading this part took too long for me? I found myself getting lost in the description of the place and him and I wanted the story to start. I don't know if you could move some of the dialogue up closer to the beginning, maybe after the first paragraph. Have him chant his mantra there and then go on to describe him as the odd-job man. Have him say it one more time and hope before he sees the person scuttle away... then proceed to talk about his family and needing the money before we set our eyes on Bernard Mason for the first time. I'm not completely sure that reshuffling will grasp their attention more, but it would be a possible way.
Brian sounds like a nice character, a genuine person with his only weakness so far being his need for money. It kind of makes me sad that he misses out so much because of his need and greed for it, but you described that perfectly well. I couldn't help but think how realistic that little lesson taught there is as well.
Sorry for the short review, but there isn't much more to say. It was pretty fab. My favourite lines had to be:
It is strange how money blinds people, just as fear blinds the weak and cowardly
The greatest forms of bravery are often insane
Thanks for the wonderful review!Timmy here for a brief review... Well, maybe not so brief. 
Cool comment from awesomenesishnessnous
That word is so real.
Okay, so i will just start this off with a comment. Perspective.
What is perspective? Writing from perspective? You could also call it POV... In this story, its more like its from a far-off look towards it than it is actually from someone's perspective. That is a great way to start off... but I think that you should establish what your main character is, and then stick with it...
Then there is third person and first person writing... Third person is how your character sees it, but I think if you want to really pull your reader in, it should be in such a way that you could change the He or she to I, thus changing it to first person, and not have it seem awkward or strange... First person really helps you see into the person, though(The Hunger Games), but books like the Percy Jackson series does that as well, without having the boundaries of only being able to write in one person's perspective.
They say that 75% of your writing in your book should be from your main characters point of view, whether that be the stable boy or the king... You can use the other 25% to learn more about the other characters and what they are like, but you need to keep with that one character to establish to your reader that he is the main character, and he's awesome.
So that didn't actually have anything to do with your story... Not really. Just a thought that I thought--Egh, redundant--would help you a bit throughout to keep it moving fluid.
Other awesome comments
I won't point out any grammar or punctuation errors here... Besides, that would be BORING!! Lets keep this review up and lively!!
I live at number twenty-one. What will you tell them?’ he demanded.
No,’ said the man – confusedly, it seemed. ‘But – but if I am, then – do me a favour,’ he said suddenly. ‘When you hear a loud sound – a loud sound, you got me? – don’t run to the police.
Hey there Pompadour!! Silver here to review as requested!!
I really, REALLY liked this but first, onto the:
Main Points
The wind passed by like a symphony of icicles,
Sleet on the road, snow on the sidewalks.
But there was nothing remotely warm about this winter
perhaps they were wondering vaguely of little match-girls the streets would be housing tonight.
His mousey-brown whiskers had been painted white by the snow,
But he always kept hope,
handed Heaney a two thousand pound not
Hi Pomps it's me, way way way after requestation, but I am here (and that is totally a word)
as his breath rose in smoky puffs of dragon’s breath before him.
Heya Pomps! Subtle here for an extremely brief review. As per usual, your grammar and spelling is flawless. So I will comment briefly on the content of this chapter.
First of all, I liked how you divided it into two parts because one really long chapter really puts me off. Instead, I liked how you ended part one with a cliff hanger/ rhetorical question so that the readers will want to / or obliged to see what happens next.
Maybe is only me, and maybe I've just read way too many books where an indication of time is always italicized. So, maybe you want to italicized it? If not, that's fine. I liked the overall language and structure of your chapter, they choice of words were good, concise and relevant. You gave us enough description to get a sense of what's going on, but not that much so it turns into filler. I also love how you varied your dialogue beginnings and ends so that is not always the same start and finish.The suburbs of Birmingham. Two months ago.
This is strange! Huzzah!
First of all let me say you are a brilliant author and this work is amazing. These are not even nitpicks, more just hunches.
Anyways methinks perhaps the random snobbish stranger could be described a little more? Thats just the impression I got.
Also you say that Mr Oddjob was the "only" man out... is this true? Wasn't Mr Tophat out by then?
The rhetorical question at the end seems a little strange. I realize that you need something to end with a little punch, but I just thought "Who's wondering in the story?"
Anyhows, great work, keep it up etc.
Take That You Fiend!
P.S. Love the chapter name!
Okay, I have no idea where this is going, so that can be seen as a good sign. But, at the same time I'm not exactly sure what this exposition accomplished. It has suspense, it raises questions and it sort of brings subtle plot lines that set the story in motion, but I have no idea what is going on. On the upside I liked your imagery especially in the intro paragraph. It is not the easiest task to paint a vivid picture with words, but you nailed it. That being said, I will warn you that you have to be careful about where you place these wordy descriptions. If they interrupt the flow of the story, then you must get rid of them. You can be just as descriptive through dialogue and what the characters do. And one last thing, I suggest that when you introduce the name(s) of the character(s) that you either reveal them through dialogue or place the name where you first bring in the character.
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